

Glass_ 

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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 














DAVID HARUM 
A Story of American Life 




















U^oAVi* ^ '** 













“/ told ye he'd stand 9 ithout hit chin 999 



DAVID HARUM 

A Story 

of American Life 


By 


Edward Noyes Westco11 


ILLUSTRATIONS BY 


B. WEST CLINEDINST 


Text Drawings by 

C. D. FARRAND 



I) . APPLETON & COMPANY 
NEW YORK MCMXXIII LONDON 


CcHraL Qv. 








Copyright, 1898, 1900, 1923, by 
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 


All rights in this book, including the rights of dramatization, recitation, 
translation, and the publication of extracts, are strictly reserved. 


C 

A 


< 


JAN 29 *23 



Cl A 6 9 8 0 8 2 



FOREWORD 


“The’s as much human nature in some folks as th' is 
in others, if not more.”—D avid Harum. 

Twenty-five years ago a new character in American 
letters was created; a type so true, so vital, that to¬ 
day David Harum is a part of our language—a common 
possession with Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn and 
Mrs. Stowe’s Uncle Tom. 

Books come and books go. Many arrive, but few 
survive the acid test of time. 

David Harum is known and loved by thousands who 
have forgotten the very names of their neighbors of 
long ago. 

Literary fashions change and we have seen many con¬ 
trasts in these past years. For a time historical romance 
held the center of the stage. We had stories dealing 
with religious faith and doubt. Then came from-the- 
cradle-to-the-grave novels bv writers who turned their 
hearts and souls inside out, like school boys emptying 
pockets stuffed with trash. Others gave solemn imita¬ 
tions of Russian gloom—sordid pictures of unimportant 
little lives, stories photographic and pornographic, 
s-tr’ained studies of psychoanalysis and sham adoles¬ 
cence. And some gave glorious pictures, too, of honest 
childhood—praise be to Booth Tarkington’s Penrod 
and George Madden Martin’s Emmy Lou. 

The flood of books, good and bad, has poured forth, 
yet still David Harum remains the best known example 
of the popular simon-pure American novel. 

Late in the vear 1896, Edward Noves Westcott 
finished his story and sent the manuscript to a pub¬ 
lisher. It was returned. The author then sent it to eight 





FOREWORD 


or more publishers before it was accepted. Late in 
December, 1897, it was received by D. Appleton & Com¬ 
pany with the following letter: 

“I have taken the liberty of sending you, by the 
American Express to-day, the typewritten manuscript 
of a story of American life which I have recently com- 
pleted, entitled David Hamm. I desire to submit this 
to you for examination, with a view to its publication, 
and trust you will find it suited to your requirements.” 

The manuscript was read and recommended strongly, 
in spite of certain need for editorial revision. In its 
original form, David Harum played but a minor role 
in the novel. The editors suggested to the author that 
it would be wise to introduce his old horse-trading 
banker into the opening chapter and to develop the 
character more richly throughout the story. 

The author, although desperately ill, cheerfully un¬ 
dertook the revision, completed the work, and returned 
the storv in the form in which it was finally ffiven to the 

• n 

public. 

The following extracts are from a letter dictated by 
Mr. Westcott to his publishers on January 19, 1898: 

“I feel very grateful to you. I have lived with and 
among the people I have written about. My father 
was born and ‘raised’ on Buxton Hill, and a great 
many of David’s peculiar figures and savings were 
constantly cropping out in my father’s diction. The 
district which is the scene of my storv should be de- 
scribed as being in Northern Central New York rather 
than Northern New York.” 

In another part of the same letter Mr. Westcott 
says: 

“If David Harum were to be published, even without 




FOREWORD 


much delay, it would, in all probability, be posthumous. 
I have had the fun of writing it, anyway, and nobody 
will ever laugh over it more than I have. I never could 
tell what David was going to say next.” 

Edward Westcott died the spring before his novel 
was published. David Harum was issued in Septem¬ 
ber, 1898. 

Fifteen hundred copies were printed for the first 
edition, a usual number at that time for a first book bv 
an unknown author. There was no beating of drums, 
no special advance notification to the trade. The ad¬ 
vertising was such as was usually done in those days. 
It was some time before there were re-orders for the 
book and the reviews were not very encouraging. After 
several months the interest in the book quickened in 
certain parts of New York State and there was a par¬ 
ticular demand from the Wall Street district of New 
York City. Later it was learned that a number of 
prominent men who came from the central and western 
part of the state were very much interested in the book 
and said they had known people who reminded them 
strongly of David Harum. Many a Wall Street mil¬ 
lionaire knew from experience in boyhood what David 
meant when he said, “The’ wa’n’t but two seasons o’ the 
year with me—them of chilblains an’ stun-bruises.” 

Towards the end of 1898, the year of publication, the 
total sale was about 12,000 copies. In 1899 the sale 
leaped month by month, reaching a total for that year 
of 388,665 copies—an enormous sale for those days. 
During this period special advertising was taken—par¬ 
ticularly in the County newspapers. The million mark 
in total sales was passed many years ago. 

The book slowly became known in England, but the 
sale was not large until Lord Randolph Churchill re- 

vii 



FOREWORD 


ferred to David Harum in a speech in the House 
of Commons. Editions have appeared in England, 
Australia, and Canada, and the English sale has con¬ 
tinued to be large up to the present day. The book has 
been sold in six-pence or one-shilling editions, as well 
as in the regular editions. The present sale in Eng¬ 
land is nearly as large as in the United States; in some 
years it has exceeded the American sales. The sale is 
due entirely to the interest of the public in the book and 
the word-of-mouth advertising of the reader who has 
enjoyed it. 

It would be pleasing to our sense of efficiency could 
we claim that the success of this book was due to su¬ 
perior ability on our part. As a matter of fact, sales 
management, publicity agents, advertising, and reviews 
had little to do with it. The book scored on its merit 
as an honest piece of work. 

And a fine score it is! This sound, w holesome novel 
of American life has been read by millions in every 
quarter of the globe. It is as true a picture of its 
section of our country as are Joseph Lincoln’s descrip¬ 
tions of life on Cape Cod, or those rare stories of the 
South by Thomas Nelson Page and Joel Chandler 
Harris. 

Not such a mad world, my masters, after all, but one 
in which clean books win success and even become “best 
sellers.” 

New r times come, new customs arise, and a new gen¬ 
eration which knows not Joseph. To these we par¬ 
ticularly recommend David Harum, with his native wit, 
droll humor, pithy sayings, homely philosophy, and his 
big tender heart concealed under a hard shell. 

In the vernacular of the road “Meet David Harum.” 
He makes life more worth while. 

The Publishers 

via 


INTRODUCTION 


The interest which is always felt in the life and per¬ 
sonality of the writer of a successful book originates, it 
would seem, in the sympathetic and kindly desire of his 
readers for a more intimate acquaintance with him than 
they can attain through the medium of his fictitious 
characters. This is surely not mere curiosity, but 
rather an expression of genuine affection, and therefore 
the few lines of biography which appeared with the 
earlier editions of this book may now quite properly be 
somewhat extended, since the author has achieved a 
great, though unhappily a posthumous, fame. 

For it may reasonably be doubted if any work of 
American fiction has ever had such a wide-spread and in¬ 
stantaneous success as David Harum. As these lines 
are being written the report comes that the number of 
copies issued during the twenty months that have passed 
since its publication is but a few short of half a million. 
Editions of it have appeared in England, Australia, 
and Canada, and negotiations are now in progress for 
the publication of a German translation. It has been 
the theme for many poems and parodies; the text for 
homilies ; the inspiration for the cartoonist; the source 


IX 


INTRODUCTION 


of the orator’s wit; and an astrologer has asked in all 
seriousness for full details of the history of the book and 
its author, so that he may cast the horoscopes of novels 
yet unpublished, and thereby foretell success or failure. 

Many people, hitherto quite unknown, have unblush - 
ingly set forth their claims to be the “originals” of 
one or another character of the book ; and while these 
foolish attempts to acquire a little unearned importance 
are more absurd than serious, yet it may not be out of 
place here to state that all such claims are absolutely 
without foundation. The characters are all drawn from 
life, it is true, in the sense that they are lifelike, but 
not from individuals. Each one is entirely the creation 
of the author’s imagination, and this fact he asserted 
with much earnestness, over and over again. “I should 
not dare put real people, just as I see them, into my 
book,” he once characteristically said ; “they’d spoil it.” 

The author of David Hamm was born in Syracuse, 
New York, September 27, 184G, and died there of pul¬ 
monary consumption, March 31,1898, in his fifty-second 
year. He was married in 1874 to Jane Dows of Buf¬ 
falo, and she, dying in 1890, left three children, Harold, 
"V iolet, and Philip. His father was Doctor AmosWest- 
cott, once one of the conspicuous citizens of Syracuse, 
and during part of the Civil War its mayor. 

Edward was educated in the public schools of the 
city, finishing with the High School when about six¬ 
teen. Even at that age he had clearly developed the 
temperament and mind of the student. But instead of 
continuing his studies in college, as he greatly desired 
to do, he found it necessary to enter at once upon a 
business career. It is, of course, quite futile now to 
imagine what other results would have followed had 


INTRODUCTION 


he been allowed to pursue his inclination in this matter ; 
but it is certain that the discipline of a university 
training, and particularly the stimulating effect of in¬ 
tellectual competition and the necessary mental con¬ 
centration, would have produced a great and valuable 
impression upon his sensitive, artistic temperament. 
For if ever a man was endowed too richly, it was the 
author of David Harum. Besides being a novelist 
and a man of business, he was a musician, a painter, a 
poet, and a conversationalist of conspicuous powers. 
He did well all that he undertook, but because he could 
do so many things easily he did not often feel impelled 
to concentrate his efforts upon one thing. It was not 
until his long and fatal illness took from him the power 
thus variously to occupy himself that he began the 
work that has made him famous. 

Being deprived by circumstances of the education he 
longed for he became his own teacher; and in this 
his inherent good taste, receptive mind, and retentive 
memory enabled him to select and rapidly acquire a 
great store of useful and ready knowledge. Through¬ 
out his life he was a voluminous reader; and while fic¬ 
tion and poetry were his favorite branches of literature, 
yet his tastes were catholic enough to cover all the 
sciences, and he was particularly interested in ques¬ 
tions of finance. The drudgery and monotony of a 
commercial life were always very irksome to him, but 
being compelled to disregard his tastes, he did so com¬ 
pletely. His active years were wholly devoted to busi¬ 
ness, in which he started as a junior clerk in the 
Mechanics’ Bank of Syracuse. Then followed two years 
in the New York office of the Mutual Life Insurance 
Company; after which, returning to Syracuse, he 


XI 


INTRODUCTION 


again became a junior bank clerk, then teller, and then 
cashier. About 1880 he founded the firm of Westcott 
and Abbott, bankers and brokers; and when this part¬ 
nership was dissolved he became the registrar and 
financial expert of the Syracuse Water Commission, 
which was at that time installing a new and costly 
system of water-supply throughout the city. Over 
three million dollars passed through his hands in the 
execution of this work ; and his management of these 
great financial interests was distinguished by absolute 
fidelity and accuracy. 

In personal appearance Mr. Westcott was tall, slen¬ 
der, and graceful ; and his handsome, intellectual face 
would light up in greeting a friend with a smile that 
was extremely attractive and magnetic. It was un¬ 
doubtedly in music that he found his greatest pleasure ; 
for though in business hours he always subordinated 
the artistic side of his nature to the requirements of the 
moment, yet these duties being ended for the day, he 
let the other talents appear. He was endowed with a 
fine barytone voice, and having received most excellent 
professional training, he became a conspicuous figure in 
the musical circles of central New York. His knowl¬ 
edge of music as well as his acquaintance with bank¬ 
ing have benefited the readers of David Harum ; for in 
describing the trials of a church choir director, and the 
methods of a country bank, the author has clearly drawn 
upon his memory for his facts. He possessed also a 
considerable talent for musical composition, and several 
songs, of which he wrote not only the words and air, 
but the harmony as well, have been published, and 
sung by those who may never know the author’s name. 

Those who knew Mr. Westcott in the years when he 
was an intellectual leader in his native city—and his 


XU I 





































































































« 

INTRODUCTION 

house was a center for musical and artistic men and 
women—may still recall some of his wise and witty 
sayings. Yet, with all his quickness and keenness, he 
never intentionally uttered a word that hurt, and his 
fine courtesy was invariably a most conspicuous part 
of his bearing. The genial humor which he lias so 
successfully infused into his book was actually his own, 
and was constantly exhibited in every-day affairs. 

It was not until he retired from all business occupa¬ 
tions because of the collapse of his health and the cer¬ 
tain knowledge that he could not recover, that Mr. 
Westcott seriously thought of doing any literary work 
for publication. He had written much in the past, and 
doubtless realized that he possessed unusual literary 
powers; but, with the exception of a series of letters 
upon financial and political topics, very little had ever 
reached the public. At the outset his chief hope was 
not to win fame or reward,—these, indeed, he seemed 
not to think of,—but rather to find an occupation that 
should busy his mind and hands. “I have been so 
closely tied to a routine all my life,’ 7 he once said, “that, 
now I am free, I find I have lost all power of self-em¬ 
ployment.” The failure of his voice about this time, 
which was due to the progress of his disease, caused 
him the greatest distress, and, more than anything, 
impressed him with the seriousness of his condition. 

Little by little, however, he grew accustomed to the 
changed conditions of his life ; the artistic side was now 
having a chance to develop along an unobstructed path ; 
the limitations which his failing health placed upon 
him were combining his efforts in one or two direc¬ 
tions, instead of the five or six along which he had pre¬ 
viously allowed his talents to stray ; and presently he 
had made a tentative start on David Harum. This 


xin 


INTRODUCTION 




was in the summer of 1895, while he was living at Lake 
Meacham in the Adirondacks, where he had gone in the 
vain hope that the climate would stay the progress of 
his disease. 

The first work thus done by him produced what are 
now substantially Chapters XIX-XXIV ; that is, the 
scenes between David, John, and the Widow Cullom, 
and the Christmas dinner that follows them ; and these 
pages constitute the nucleus about which the others 
were eventually assembled. When the author returned 
to Syracuse late in the fall of 1895, he diffidently showed 
his work to some of his friends, and was urged by them 
to complete it. He really needed little urging, for he 
hadalreadv become interested in his characters, and as 
he went on he found the work becoming a real pleasure. 

His method of composition was first to prepare a rough 
sketch or outline of a chapter with a lead-pencil on ordi¬ 
nary copy paper. He was unable to use a pen freely, as 
he suffered from scrivener’s palsy. These notes being 
finished, he rewrote them on a type-writer, enlarging 
or deleting as he went along; and this work was again 
revised or reconstructed until the author was satisfied. 
In most cases the chapters were completed in their 
present order, the exceptions being those just men¬ 
tioned (XIX—XXIV), and those which are now 
Chapters I and II, these being written last of all and 
prefixed to the story as it then stood, in order to intro¬ 
duce David and Aunt Polly to the reader at the very 
beginning. In all the author occupied about fifteeu 
months of actual time in writing his book, though a 
somewhat greater interval than this elapsed between 
the start and the finish, since there were often days, 
and even weeks, together when he was unable to write 

xiv 




INTRODUCTION 





a line because of his physical prostration. Often, too, he 
would become discouraged as to the value of his labors, 
a discouragement his friends laughed out of him ; yet 
in the main his progress was steady, and the story was 
completed about the end of 1896. 

The question has been asked, Did not Mr. Westcott 
leave his book unfinished*? ^so ; every line and word of 
the story are his own, and two complete type-written 
copies of it were made by his own hand nearly a year 
before his death. Even in this mechanical part of the 
work his lifelong habits of neatness and accuracy were 
conspicuous, and it is doubtful if “cleaner copy” were 
ever given to the printer. 

The book was read and recommended by Mr. Ripley 
Hitchcock, and accepted by D. Appleton & Co. early 
in January, 1898; and the cordial words of com¬ 
mendation which were then sent to the author by Mr. 
Hitchcock were “more welcome,” so he said, “than any 
gift I could have received.” His health actually rallied 
a little at this time in response to the mental exhilara¬ 
tion, but only temporarily, and never sufficiently to 
permit him to leave his bed. He was able to conduct 
the preliminary business negotiations himself, however ; 
but he died without knowing, and perhaps without 
suspecting, the extraordinary welcome that was to be 
given his book. Yet when we read in Chapter XLYII 
his own words, “Many of the disappointments of life, 
if not the greater part, come because events are un¬ 
punctual. They have a way of arriving sometimes too 
early, or worse, too late,” their prophetic significance 
is now profoundly impressive. 

Forbes Heermans. 


TV 







LIST OF FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS 


\ 

FACING 

PAGE 

“I tolcl ye he’d stand ’ithout hitchin’ ” . Frontispiece 

Photogravure 


Portrait of Edward N. Westcott 

Mezzotint by S. Arlent-Eclwards 

The exit of Bill Montaig. 

‘‘Mis’ Cullom, I want to tell ye a little story” 

“ We sneaked up the aisle ”. 

"You look f’m behind like a red-headed snappin’ bug" 

“She made a grab at the lines” .... 

“An’ flung it slap in ray face” .... 


. xiii 
. 143 

. 182 
. 233 

. 201 

. 288 
. 349 


xvii 







DAVID HARUM 
A Story of American Life 






DAVID HARUM 

s 


CHAPTER I 



cup of tea into his 
saucer to lower its 
temperature to the 
drinking-point, and 
helped himself to a 
second cut of ham and 
a third egg. What- 


AVID poured 
half of his second 


ever was on his mind to have kept him unusually 
silent during the evening meal, and to cause certain 
wrinkles in his forehead suggestive of perplexity or 
misgiving, had not impaired his appetite. David was 
what he called “a good feeder.” 

Mrs. Bixbee, known to most of those who enjoyed the 
privilege of her acquaintance as “Aunt Polly,” though 
nieces and nephews of her blood there were none in 
Homeville, Freeland County, looked curiously at her 
brother, as, in fact, she had done at intervals during the 
repast; and concluding at last that further forbearance 
was uncalled for, relieved the pressure of her curiosity 
thus : 

“Guess ye got somethin’ on your mind, hain’t ye? 



4 


DAVIl) HARUM 


You liain’t hardly said aye, yes, ner no senee you set 
down. Anythin’ gone ’skew?’’ 

David lifted his saucer, gave the contents a precau¬ 
tionary blow, and emptied it with sundry windy sus- 
pi rations. 

“No,” he said, “nothin’ hain’t gone exac’ly wrong, ’s 
ye might say—not yet $ blit I done that thing I was 
tell in’ ye of ter-day.” 

“Done what thing?” she asked perplexedly. 

“I telegraphed ter New York,” he replied, “fer that 
young feller to come on — the young man Gen’ral Wolsey 
wrote me about. I got a letter from him to-day, an’ I 
made up my mind 4 the sooner the quicker,’ an’ I tele¬ 
graphed him to come’s soon’s he could.” 

“I fergit what you said his name was,” said Aunt 
Polly. 

“There’s his letter,” said David, handing it across the 
table. “Read it out ’loud.” 

“You read it,” she said, passing it back after a search 
in her pocket; “I must ’a’ left my specs in the settin’- 
room.” 

The letter was as follows : 

Dear Sir: I take the liberty of addressing you at the 
instance of General Wolsey, who spoke to me of the mat¬ 
ter of your communication to him, and was kind enough 
to say that he would write you in my behalf. My ac¬ 
quaintance with him has been in the nature of a social 
rather than a business one, and I fancy that he can only 
recommend me on general grounds. I will say, therefore, 
that I have had some experience with accounts, but not 
much practice in them for nearly three years. Neverthe¬ 
less, unless the work you wish done is of an intricate 
nature, I think I shall be able to accomplish it with such 


DAVID HARUM 


5 

posting at the outset as most strangers would require. 
General Wolsey told me that you wanted some one as 
soon as possible. I have nothing to prevent me from 
starting at once if you desire to have me. A telegram 
addressed to me at the office of the Trust Company will 
reach me promptly. Yours very truly, 

John K. Lenox. 

“Wa’al,” said David, looking over his glasses at his 
sister, “what do you think on’t?” 

“The’ ain’t much brag in’t,” she replied thoughtfully. 

“No,” said David, putting his eye-glasses back in 
their case, “th’ ain’t no brag ner no promises; he don’t 
even say he’ll do his best, like most fellers would. He 
seems to have took it fer granted that I’ll take it fer 
granted, an’ that’s what I like about it. Wa’al,” he 
added, “the thing’s done, an’ I’ll be lookin’ fer him to¬ 
morrow mornin’, or evenin’ at latest.” 

Mrs. Bixbee sat for a moment with her large, light 
blue and rather prominent eyes fixed on her brother’s 
face, and then she said, with a slight undertone of anxi¬ 
ety, “Was you cal’latin’ to have that young man from 
New Y"ork come here?” 

“I hadn’t no such idee,” he replied, with a slight 
smile, aware of what was passing in her mind. “What 
put that in your head?” 

“Wa’al,” she answered, “you know the’ ain’t scarcely 
anybody in the village tliet takes boarders in the win¬ 
ter, an’ I was wonderin’ what he would do.'’ 

“I s’pose he’ll go to the Eagle,” said David. “I 
dunno where else, ’nless it’s to the Lake House.” 

“The Eagil! ” she exclaimed contemptuously. “Land 
sakes ! Coinin’ here from New Y^ork ! He won’t stan’ 
it there a week.” 


6 


DAVID HARUM 


“Wa’al,” replied David, “mebbe he will an’ mebbe 
he won’t, but I don’t see what else the’ is for it, an’ I 
guess ’twon’t kill him fer a spell. The fact is—” he was 
proceeding when Mrs. Bixbee interrupted him. 

“I guess we’d better adjourn t’ the settin’-room an’ 
let Sairy clear off the tea-things,” she said, rising and 
going into the kitchen. 

“What was you sayin’?” she asked, as she presently 
found her brother in the apartment designated, and 

seated herself with her mend¬ 
ing-basket in her lap. 

“The fact is, I was sayin’,” 
he resumed, sitting with hand 
and forearm resting on a 
round table, in the center of 
which was a large kerosene 
lamp, “that my notion was, fust off, to have him come 
here, but when I come to think on’t I changed my 
mind. In the fust place, except that he’s well recom¬ 
mended, I don’t know nothin’ about him; an’ in the 
second, you an’ I are putty well set in our ways, an’ 
git along all right jest as we be. I may want the young 
feller to stay, an’ then agin I may not—we’ll see. It’s 
a good sight easier to git a fishhook in ’n ’tis to git it 
out. I expect he’ll find it putty tough at fust, but if 
he’s a feller that c’n be drove out of bus’nis by a spell 
of the Eagle Tavern, he ain’t the feller I’m lookin’ fer— 
though I will allow,” he added with a grimace, “that 
it’ll be a putty hard test. But if I want to say to him, 
after tryin’ him a spell, that I guess me an’ him don’t 
seem likely to hitch, we’ll both take it easier if we ain’t 
livin’ in the same house. I guess I’ll take a look at the 
Trybune,” said David, unfolding that paper. 



DAVID HARUM 


7 


Mrs. Bixbee went on with her needlework, with an 
occasional side glance at her brother, who was immersed 
in the gospel of his politics. Twice or thrice she opened 
her lips as if to address him, but apparently some re¬ 
straining thought interposed. Finally the impulse to 
utter her mind culminated. “Dave,” she said, “d’you 
know what Deakin Perkins is sayin’ about ye?” 

David opened his paper so as to hide his face, and 
the corners of his mouth twitched as he asked in 
return, “Wa’al, what’s the deakin sayin’ now?” 

“He’s sayin’,” she replied, in a voice mixed of indig¬ 
nation and apprehension, “thet you sold him a balky 
horse, an’ he’s goin’ to hev the law on ye.” 

David’s shoulders shook behind the sheltering page, 
and his mouth expanded in a grin. 

“Wa’al,” he replied after a moment, lowering the 
paper and looking gravely at his companion over his 
glasses, “next to the deakin’s religious experience, them 
of lawin’ an’ horse-tradin’ air his strongest p’ints, an’ he 
works the hull on ’em to once sometimes.” 

The evasiveness of this generality was not lost on Mrs. 
Bixbee, and she pressed the point with, “Did ye? an’ 
will he ? ” 

“Yes, an’ no, an’ mebbe, an’ mebbe not,” was the cate¬ 
gorical reply. 

“Wa’al,” she answered with a snap, “mebbe you call 
thet an answer. I s’pose if you don’t want to let on 
you won’t, but I do believe you’ve ben playin’ some 
trick on the deakin, an’ won’t own up. I do wish,” 
she added, “thet if you hed to git rid of a balky 
horse onto somebody you’d hev picked out somebody 
else.” 

“When you got a balker to dispose of,” said David 

4 


8 


DAVID HARUM 


t 


gravely, “you can’t alwus pick an’ choose. Fust come, 
fust served.” Then he went on more seriously : “Now 
I’ll tell ye. Quite a while ago—in fact, not long after 
I come to enj’y the priv’lidge of the deakin’s acquaint¬ 
ance—we lied a deal. I wa’n’t jest on my guard, 
knowin’ him to be a deakiu an’ all that, an’ he lied to 
me so splendid that I was took in, clean over my head. 
He done me so brown I was burnt in places, an’ you c’d 
smell smoke round me fer some time.” 

“Was it a horse?” asked Mrs. Bixbee gratuitously. 

“Wa’al,” David replied, “mebbe it hed ben some time, 
but at that particular time the only thing to determine 
that fact was that it wa’n’t nothin’ else.” 

“Wa’al, I declare !” exclaimed Mrs. Bixbee, wonder¬ 
ing not more at the deacon’s turpitude than at the lapse 
in David’s acuteness, of which she had an immense 
opinion, but commenting only on the former. “I’m 
’mazed at the deakin.” 

“Yes’m,” said David with a grin, “I’m quite a liar 
myself when it comes right down to the hoss bus’nis, 
but the deakin c ’11 give me both bowers ev’ry hand. 
He done it so slick that I had to laugh w hen I come to 
think it over—an’ I had witnesses to the hull confab, 
too, that he didn’t know' of, an’ I c’d ’ve showed him up 
in great shape if I’d had a mind to.” 

“Why didn’t ye?” said Aunt Polly, whose feelings 
about the deacon were undergoing a revulsion. 

“Wa’al, to tell ye the truth, I was so completely 
skunked that I hadn’t a word to say. I got rid o’ the 
thing fer what it was w uth fer hide an’ taller, an’ ’stid 
of squealin’ round the way you say he’s doin’, like a 
stuck pig, I kep’ my tongue between my teeth an’ laid 
to git even some time.” 


DAVID HARUM 


9 

“You ort to’ve hed the law on him,” declared Mrs. 
Bixbee, now fully converted. “The old scamp !” 

“Wa’al,” was the reply, “I gen’ally prefer to settle 
out of court, an’ in this particular case, while I might 
’a’ ben willin’ t’ admit that I hed ben did up, I didn’t 
feel much like swearin’ to it. I reckoned the time’d 
come when mebbe I’d git the laugh on the deakin, an’ 
it did, an’ we’re putty well settled now in full.” 

“You mean this last pufformance ? ” asked Mrs. Bix¬ 
bee. “I wish you’d quit beatin’ about the bush, an’ tell 
me the hull story.” 

“Wa’al, it’s like this, then, if you will hev it. I was 
over to Wliiteboro awhile ago on a little matter of 
worldly bus’nis, an’ I seen a couple of fellers halter- 
exercisin’ a hoss in the tavern yard. I stood round a 
spell watchin’ ’em, an’ when he come to a stan’still I 
went an’ looked him over, an’ I liked his looks fust-rate. 

“‘Fer sale?’ I says. 

“ ‘ Wa’al,’ says the chap that was leadin’ him, ‘ I never 
see the hoss that wa’n’t, if the price was right.’ 

Yourn? ’ I says. 

“‘Mine an’ hisn,’ he says, noddin’ his head at the 
other feller. 

“‘What ye askin’ fer him?’ I says. 

“‘One-fifty,’ he says. 

“I looked him all over agin putty careful, an’ once or 
twice I kind o’ shook my head’s if I didn’t quite like 
what I seen, an’ when I got through I sort o’ half turned 
away without sayin’ anythin’, ’s if I’d seen enough. 

“‘The’ ain’t a scratch ner a pimple on him,’ says the 
feller, kind o’ resentin’ my looks. ‘ He’s sound an’ kind, 
an’ ’ll stand without hitchin’, an’ a lady c’n drive him’s 
well’s a man.’ 


10 


DAVID HARUM 


‘“I ain’t got anythin’ agin him/ I says, ‘an’ prob’ly 
that’s all true, ev’ry word on’t; but one-fifty’s a con- 
sid’able price fer a boss these days. I hain’t no pressin’ 



use fer another hoss, an’, in fact,’ I says, ‘ I’ve got one or 
two fer sale myself.’ 

“‘He’s wuth two hunderd jest as he stands,’ the feller 
says. ‘He hain’t had no trainin’, an’ he c’n draw two 
men in a road wagin better’ll fifty.’ 

“Wa’al, the more I looked at him the better I liked 
him, but I only says, ‘ Jes’ so, jes’ so, he may be wuth 
the money, but jest as I’m fixed now he ain’t wuth it to 
me, an’ I hain’t got that much money with me if he 
was,’ I says. 

“The other feller hadn’t said nothin’ up to that time, 
an’ he broke in now : ‘I s’pose you’d take him fer a gift, 
wouldn’t ye?’ he says, kind o’ sneerin’. 

“‘Wa’al, yes,’ I says, ‘I dunno but I would if you’d 
throw in a pound o’ tea an’ a halter.’ 




DAVID HARUM 


1 1 

a He kind o’ laughed, an’ says, ‘Wa’al, this ain’t no 
gilt enterprise, an’ I guess we ain’t goin’ to trade, but 
I’d like ter know,’ he says, ‘jest as a matter of curios’ty, 
what you’d say he was wuth to ye.’ 

“‘Wa’al,’ I says, ‘I come over this mornin’ to see a 
teller that owed me a trifle o’ money. Exceptin’ of 
some loose change, what he 
paid me ’s all I got with me,’ 

I says, takin’ out my wallet. 

‘That wad’s got a liunderd an’ 
twenty-five into it, an’ if you’d 
sooner have your hoss an’ halter than the wad,’ I says, 
‘why, I’ll bid ye good-day.’ 

“‘You’re offerin’ one-twenty-five fer the hoss an’ hal¬ 
ter'? ’ he says. 

“‘That’s what I’m doin’,’ I says. 

“‘You’ve made a trade,’ he says, puttin’ out his 
hand fer the money an’ handin’ the halter over to 
me.” 

“An’ didn’t ye suspicion nothin’ when he took ye up 
like that?” asked Mrs. Bixbee. 

“I did smell woolen some,” said David, “but I had 
the hoss an’ they had the money , an’, as fur’s I c’d see, 
the critter was all right. Howsomever, I says to ’em : 
‘This here’s all right, fur’s it’s gone, but you’ve talked 
putty strong ’bout this hoss. I don’t know who you 
fellers be, but I c’n find out,’ I says. Then the fust 
feller that done the talkin’ ’bout the hoss put in an’ says, 
‘The’ hain’t ben one word said to you about this hoss 
that wa’n’t gospel truth—not one word.’ An’ when I 
come to think on’t afterward,” said David with a half¬ 
laugh, “it mebbe wa’n’t gospel truth, but it was good 
enough jury truth. I guess this ain’t over ’n’ above in- 





12 


DAVID HA RUM 


t’restin’ to ye, is it?” he asked after a pause, looking 
doubtfully at his sister. 

“Yes, ’tis,” she asserted. “I’m lookin’ forrerd to 
where the deakin comes in; but you jes’ tell it your 
own way.” 

“I’ll git there all in good time,” said David, “but 
some o’ the p’int o’ the story’ll be lost if I don’t tell ye 
what come fust.” 

“I allow to stan’ it’s long’s you can,” she said en¬ 
couragingly, “seein’ what work I had gettin' ye started. 
Did ye find out anythin’ ’bout them fellers?” 

“ I ast the barn man if he knowed who they was, an’ 
he said he never seen ’em till the yestid’y before, an’ 
didn’t know ’em f m Adam. They come along with a 
couple of bosses, one drivin’ an’ t’other leadin’ — the 
one I bought. I ast him if they knowed who I was, an’ 
he said one on ’em ast him, an’ he told him. The feller 
said to him, seein’ me drive up : ( That’s a putty likely- 
lookin’ hoss. Who’s drivin’ him?’ An’ he says to the 
feller: 1 That’s Dave Harum, f’m over to Homeville. 
He’s a great feller fer bosses,’ he says.” 

“Dave,” said Mrs. JBixbee, “them chaps jes’ laid fer 
ye, didn’t they ? ” 

“1 reckon they did,” he admitted ; “ail’ they was as 
slick a pair as was ever drawed to,” which expression 
was lost upon his sister. David rubbed the fringe of 
yellowish-gray hair which encircled his bald pate for a 
moment. 

“Wa’al,” he resumed, “after the talk with the barn 
man, I smelt woolen stronger’n ever, but 1 didn’t say 
nothin’, an’ had the mare hitched an’ started back. Old 
Jinny drives with one hand, an’ 1 c’d watch the new 
one all right, an’ as we come along I begun to think I 


DAVID HARUM 


l 3 


wa’n't stuck, after all. I never see a boss travel evener 
an’ nicer, an’ when we come to a good level place I sent 
the old mare along the best she knew, an’ the new one 
never broke his gait, an’ kep’ right up ’ithout ’par’ntly 
half try in’ 5 an’ Jinny don’t take most folks’ dust, 
neither. I swan ! ’fore I got home I reckoned I’d jest 
as good as made seventy-five, anyway.” 




i 

















CHAPTER II 


“Then the’ wa’n’t nothin’ the matter with him, after 
all,” commented Mrs. Bixbee in rather a disappointed 
tone. 

“The meanest thing top of the earth was the matter 
with him,” declared David, “but I didn’t find it out till 
the next afternoon, an’ then I found it out good. I 
hitched him to the open buggy an’ went round by the 
East road, ’cause that ain’t so much traveled. He 
went along all right till we got a mile or so out of the 
village, an’ then I slowed him down to a walk. Wa’al, 
sir, scat my— ! he hadn’t walked more’n a rod ’fore he 
come to a dead stan’still. I clucked an’ git-app’d, an’ 
finely took the gad to him a little ; but he only jes’ kind 
o’ humped up a little, an’ stood like he’d took root.” 

“Wa’al, now ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Bixbee. 

“Yes’m,” said David ; “I was stuck in ev’ry sense of 
the word.” 

“What d’ye do?” 

“Wa’al, I tried all the tricks I knowed—an’ I could 
lead him—but when I was in the buggy he wouldn’t 
stir till he got good an’ ready ; ’n’ then he’d start of his 
own accord an’ go on a spell, an’—” 

“Did he keep it up?” Mrs. Bixbee interrupted. 

“Wa’al, I sli’d say he did. I finely got home with the 
critter, but I thought one time I’d either hev to lead 
him or spend the night on the East road. He balked five 
sep’rate times, varyin’ in length, an’ it was dark when 
we struck the barn.” 

“I should hev thought you’d ’a’ wanted to kill him,” 


DAVID HARUM 


15 1 

said Mrs. Bixbee ; “an’ the fellers that sold him to ye, 
too.” 

“The’ was times,” David replied, with a nod of his 
head, “when if he’d a fell down dead I wouldn’t hev 
figgered on puttin’ a band on my hat, but it don’t never 
pay to git mad v r ith a boss 5 an’ as fer the feller I bought 
him of, w r hen I remembered how he told me he’d stand 
without hitchin’, I swan ! I had to laugh. I did, fer a 
fact. 6 Stand without hitchin’ ! ’ He, he, he ! ” 

“I guess you wouldn’t think it was so awful funny, 
if you hadn’t gone an’ stuck that horse onto Dea- 
kin Perkins—an’ I don’t see how you done it.” 

“Mebbe that is part of the joke,” David al¬ 
lowed, “an’ I’ll tell ye th’ rest on’t. Tli’ next 
day I hitched the new one to th’ dem’crat 
wagin an’ put in a lot of straps an’ rope, an’ 
started off fer the East road agin. He went 
fust-rate till we come to about the place where 
we had the fust trouble, an’ sure enough, he 
balked agin. I leaned over an’ hit him a 
smart cut on the off shoulder, but he only 
humped a little, an’ never lifted a foot. I 
hit him another lick, with the selfsame result. 

Then I got dow n an’ I strapped that animal 
so’t he couldn’t move nothin’ but his head an’ tail, an’ 
got back into the buggy. Wa’al, bornby, it may ’a’ 
ben ten minutes, or it 
may ’a’ ben more or less 
—it’s slow r work settin’ 
still behind a balkin’ 
boss—he was ready to go 
on his own account, but he couldn’t budge. He kind 
o’ looked round,, much as to say, ‘ What on earth’s 





i6 


DAVID HARUM 


the matter V an’ then lie tried another move, an’ then 
another, but no go. Then I got down an' took the 
hopples off, an’ then climbed back into the buggy an’ 
says 1 Cluck !’ to him, an’ off he stepped as chipper as 
could be, an’ we went joggin’ along all right mebbe 
two mile, an’ when I slowed up, up he come agin. I 
gin him another clip in the same place on the shoulder, 
an’ I got down an’ tied him up agin, an’ the same thing 
happened as before, on’y it didn’t take him quite so 
long to make up his mind about startin’, an’ we went 
some further without a hitch. But I had to go through 
the puffbrmance the third time before he got it into his 
head that if he didn’t go when T wanted he couldn’t go 
when he wanted, an’ that didn’t suit him ; an’ when he 
felt the whip on his shoulder it meant bus’nis.” 

“ Was that the end of his balkin’? ” asked Mrs. Bixbee. 

“I lied to give him one more go-round,” said David, 
“an’ after that I didn’t hev no more trouble with him. 
He showed symptoms at times, but a touch of the whip 
on the shoulder alwus fetched him. I alwus carried 
them straps, though, till the last two three times.” 

“Wa’al, what’s the deakin kickin’ about, then?” 
asked Aunt Polly. “You’re jes’ savin’ you broke him 
of balkin’.” 

“Wa’al,” said David slowly, “some bosses will balk 
with some folks an’ not with others. You can’t most 
alwus gen’ally tell.” 

“Didn’t the deakin hev a chance to try him?” 

“He bed all the chance he ast fer,” replied David. 
“Fact is, he done most of the sellin’, as well’s the buyin’, 
himself.” 

“ How’s that ? ” 

“Wa’al,” said David, “it come about like this : After 





DAVID HARUM 


*7 


I’cl got the boss where I c’d handle him I begun to 
think I’d tied some int’restin’ an’ valu’ble experience, 
an’ it wa’n’t scurcely fair to keeii it all to myself. I 
didn’t want no patent on’t, an’ I was willin’ to let some 
other feller git a piece. So one morn in’, week before 
last—let’s see, week ago Tuesday it was, an’ a mighty 
nice mornin’ it was, too—one o’ them days that kind 
o’ lib’ral up your mind—I allowed to hitch an’ drive up 
past the deakin’s an’ back, an’ mebbe git somethin’ to 
strengthen my faith, et cetery, in case I run acrost him. 
Wa’al, ’s I come along I seen the deakin putterin’ 
round, an’ I waved my hand to him an’ went by 
a-kitin’. I went up the road a, ways an’ killed a little 
time, an’ when I come back there was the deakin, as I 
expected. He was leanin’ over the fence, an’ as I 
jogged up he hailed me, an’ I pulled up. 

“‘Mornin’, Mr. Hamm,’ he says. 

“‘Mornin’, deakin,’ I says. ‘How are ye? an’ how’s 
Mis’ Perkins these days?’ 

“‘I’m fair,’ he says, ‘fair to middlin’ ; but Mis’ Per¬ 
kins is ailin’ some— as usyulj lie says.” 

“They do say,” put in Mrs. Bixbee, “thet Mis’ Per¬ 
kins don’t liev much of a time herself.” 

“Guess she hez all the time the’ is,” answered David. 
“Wa’al,” he went on, “we passed the time o’ day, an’ 
talked a spell about the weather an’ all that, an’ finely 
I straightened up the lines as if I was goin’ on, an’ then 
I says : ‘Oh, by the way,’ I says, ‘I jes’ thought on’t. I 
heard Dominie White was lookin’ fer a boss that’d suit 
him.’ ‘I liain’t heard,’ he says; but I see in a minute 
he lied—an’ it really was a fact—an’ I says : ‘I've got 
a roan colt risin’ five, that 1 took 011 a debt a spell ago, 
that I’ll sell reasonable, that’s as likely an’ nice ev’ry 


i8 


DAVID HARUM 


way a young lioss as ever I owned. I don’t need him/ 
I says, ‘an’ didn’t want to take him, but it was that 
or nothin’ at the time an’ glad to git it, air I’ll sell him 
a barg’in. Now what I want to say to you, deakin, is 
this: That lioss’d suit the dominie to a T, in my opin¬ 
ion, but the dominie won’t come to me. Now if you 
was to say to him—bein’ in his church an’ all thet,’ I 
says, ‘that you c’d git him the right kind of a lioss, he’d 
believe you, an’ you an’ me’d be doin’ a little stroke 
of bus’nis, an’ a favor to the dominie into the bargain. 
The dominie’s well off,’ I says, ‘an’ c’n afford to drive 
a good boss.’ ” 

“What did the deakin say?’’ asked Aunt Polly as 
David stopped for breath. 

“I didn’t expect him to jump down my throat,” he 
answered ; “but I seen him prick up his ears, an’ all the 
time I was talkin’ I noticed him lookin’ my boss over, 
head an’ foot. ‘Now I ’member,’ he says, ‘healin’ sun- 
thin’ ’bout Mr. White’s lookin’ fer a boss, though when 
you fust spoke on’t it had slipped my mind. Of course,’ 
he says, ‘the’ ain’t any real reason why Mr. White 
shouldn’t deal with you direct, an’ yit mebbe I could do 
more with him ’n you could. But,’ he says, ‘I wa’n’t 
cal’latin’ to go t’ the village this mornin’, an’ I sent my 
hired man off with my drivin’ lioss. Mebbe I’ll drop 
round in a day or two,’ he says, ‘an’ look at the roan.’ 

“‘You mightn’t ketch me,’ I says, ‘an’ I want to show 
him myself; an’ more’n that,’ I says, ‘Dug Robinson’s 
after the dominie. I’ll tell ve,’ I says, ‘you jes’ git in 
’ith me an’ go down an’ look at him, an’ I’ll send ye 
back or drive ye back, an’ if you’ve got anythin’ special 
on hand you needn’t be gone three quarters of an hour,’ 
I says.” 


DAVID HARUM 


19 


“He come, did he?” inquired Mrs. Bixbee. 

“He done -so,” said David sententiously,—“ jest as I 
knowed he would, after he’d hem’d an’ haw’d about so 
much, an’ he rode a mile an’ a half livelier ’n he done 
in a good while, I reckon. He had to pull that old 
broadbrim of liisn down to his ears, an’ don’t you fergit 
it. He, he, he, he ! The road was jes’ full o’ bosses. 
Wa’al, we drove into the yard, an’ I told the hired man 
to unhitch the bay boss an’ fetch out the roan, an’ while 
he was bein’ unhitched the deakin stood round an’ 
never took his eyes off ’11 him, an’ I knowed I wouldn’t 
sell the deakin no roan boss that day, even if I wanted 
to. But when he come out I begun to crack him up, 
an’ I talked boss fer all I was wutli. The deakin looked 
him over in a don’t-care kind of a way, an’ didn’t 
’parently give much heed to what I was 
sayin’. Fin’ly I says, ‘ Wa’al, what do 
you think of him?’ ‘ Wa’al,’ he says, 

Die seems to be a likely enough critter, 
but I don’t believe he’d suit Mr. White 
—’fraid not,’ he says. ‘What you 
askin’ fer him?’ he says. ‘One-fifty,’ 

I says, ‘an’ lie’s a cheap boss at the 
money ’; but,” added the speaker with 
a laugh, “I knowed I might ’s well of 
said a thousan’. The deakin wa’n’t 
buyin’ no roan colts that morn in V’ 




20 


DAVID HARUM 


“AVhat did he say?” asked Mrs. Bixbee. 

“‘ Wa’al/ he says, ‘wa’al, I guess you ought to git that 
much fer him, but I’m ’fraid he ain’t what Mr. White 
wants.’ An’ then, ‘ That’s quite a hoss we come down 
with,’ he says. ‘Had him long?’ ‘ Jes’ long ’nough to 
git ’quainted with him,’ I says. ‘Don’t you want the 

roanferyour 
own use?’ I 
says. ‘ Meb- 
be we c’d 
shade the 
price a 
little.’ ‘No,’ 
lie says, ‘I 
^ guess not. I 
don’t need 
another hoss 
jes’ now.’ 
An’ then, 
after a min¬ 
ute, lie says: ‘Say, mebbe 
tlie bay hoss we drove ’d 
come nearer the mark fer 
White, if lie’s all right. Jest as 
soon I’d look at him?’ he says. 
‘Wa’al, I hain’t no objections, but I guess he’s more 
of a hoss than the dominie’d care fer, but I’ll go an’ 
fetch him out,’ I says. So I brought him out, an’ the 
deakin looked him all over. I see it was a case of love 
at fust sight, as the story-books say. ‘Looks all right,’ 
he says. ‘I’ll tell ye,’ I says, ‘what the feller I bought 
him of told me.’ ‘ Wliat’s that ? ’ says the deakin. ‘ He 
said to me,’ I says, ‘“that hoss hain’t got a scratch 










DAVID HARUM 


21 


ner a pimple on him. He’s sound an’ kind, an’ ’ll 
stand without hitching an’ a lady c’d drive him as 
well’s a man.” 

That’s what he said to me/ I says, ‘an’ it’s every 
word on’t true. You’ve seen whether or not he c’n 
travel/ I says, ‘ an’, so fur’s I’ve seen, he ain’t ’fraid o’ 
nothin’.’ ‘D’ye want to sell him?’ the deakin says. 
‘Wa’al/ I says, ‘I ain’t offerin’ him fer sale. You’ll go 
a good ways/ I says, ‘’fore you’ll strike such another; 
but, of course, he ain’t the only boss in the world, an’ I 
never had anythin’ in the lioss line I wouldn’t sell at 
some price.’ ‘ Wa’al/ he says, ‘what d’ye ask fer him ? ’ 
‘Wa’al/ I says, ‘if my own brother was to ask me that 
question I’d say to him two hunderd dollars, cash down, 
an’ I wouldn’t hold the offer open an hour/ I says.” 

“My!” ejaculated Aunt Polly. “Did he take you 
up ? ” 

“‘That’s more’n I give fer a boss in a good while/ he 
says, shakin’ his head, ‘an’ more’n I c’n afford, I’m 
’fraid.’ ‘All right/ I says ; ‘I c’n afford to keep him ’; 
but I knew I had the deakin same as the woodchuck 
had Skip. ‘Hitch up the roan/ I says to Mike; ‘the 
deakin wants to be took up to his house.’ ‘Is that your 
last word?’ he says. ‘That’s what it is/ I says. ‘Two 
hunderd, cash down.’ ” 

“Didn’t ye dast to trust the deakin?” asked Mrs. 
Bixbee. 

“Polly,” said David, “the’s a number of holes in a 
ten-foot ladder.” 

Mrs. Bixbee seemed to understand this rather ambigu¬ 
ous rejoinder. 

“He must ’a’ squirmed some,” she remarked. 

David laughed. 


DAVID HARUM 


22 

“The (leakin ain’t much used to payin’ the other 
feller’s price/’ he said 7 “an’ it was like pullin’ teeth; 
but he wanted that hoss more’n a cow wants a calf, an’ 
after a little more squimmidgin’ he hauled out his 
wallet an’ forked over. Mike come out with the roan, 
an’ off the deakin went, leadin’ the bay hoss.” 

“I don’t see,” said Mrs. Bixbee, looking up at her 
brother, “thet after all the’ was anythin’ you said to the 
deakin thet he could ketch holt on.” 

“The’ wa’n’t nothin’,” he replied. “The only thing 
he e’n complain about’s what I didn’t say to him.” 

“Hain’t he said anythin’ to ye?” Mrs. Bixbee in¬ 
quired. 

“He, he, he, he ! He hain’t but once, an’ the’ wa’n’t 
but little of it then.” 

“How?” 

“Wa’al, the day but one after the deakin sold himself 
Mr. Stick in’-Plaster I lied an arrant three four mile 
or so up past his jilace, an’ when I was cornin’ back, 
along ’bout four or half-past, it come on to rain like all 
possessed. I lied my old umbrel’—though it didn’t 
header me fm gettin’ more or less wet—an’ I sent the 
old mare along fer all she knew. As I come along to 
within a mile fm the deakin’s house I seen somebody 
in the road, an’ when I come up closter I see it was the 
deakin himself, in trouble, an’ I kind o’ slowed up to 
see what was goin’ on. There he was, settin’ all humped 
up with his ole broad-brim liat slopin’ down his back, 
a-sheddin’ water like a roof. Then I seen him lean over 
an’ larrup the hoss with the ends of the lines fer all he 
was wutli. It appeared he hedn’t no whip, an’ it 
wouldn’t done him no good if he’d lied. Wa’al, sir, rain 
or no rain, I jes’ pulled up to watch him. He’d larrup 


DAVID HA HUM 


2 3 



a spell, an’ then he’d set back ; an’ then he’d lean over 
an’ try it agin, harder’n ever. Scat my— ! I thought 
I’d die a-laugliin’. I couldn’t hardly cluck to the mare 
when I got ready to move on. I drove alongside an’ 
pulled up. ‘ Hullo, deakin,’ I says,‘ what’s the matter ? ’ 
He looked up at me, an’ I won’t say he was the maddest 
man I ever see, but 
he was long ways the 
maddest-Zoo&m’ man, 
an’ he shook his fist at 
me jes’ like one o’ the 
unregen’rit. ‘Consarn 
ye, Dave Harum ! ’ he 
says, ‘I’ll hev the law 
on ye fer this.’ ‘ What 
fer ? ’ I says. ‘1 didn’t 
make it come on 
to rain, did I?’ I 
says. ‘You know 
mighty well what 
fer,’he says. ‘You 
sold me this 
damned bead,'’ he 
says, ‘ an’ he’s J L | 

balked with me 
nine times this afternoon, an’ I’ll fix ye for’t,’ he says. 
‘Wa’al, deakin,’ I says, ‘I’m ’fraid the squire’s office ’ll 
be shut up ’fore you git there, but I’ll take any word 
you’d like to send. You know I told ye,’ I says, ‘that 
he’d stand ’ithout hitchin’.’ An’ at that he only jest 
kind o’ choked an’ sputtered. He was so mad he 
couldn’t say nothin’, an’ on I drove, an’ when I got 
about forty rod or so I looked back, an’ there was the 


6 








24 


DAVID HARUM 


deakin a-comin’ along tlie road witli as much of his 
shoulders as he could git under his hat an 1 leadin' his 
new boss. He, he, he, he ! Oh, my stars an’ garters ! 
Say, Polly, it paid me fer bein’ born into this vale o’ 
tears. It did, I declare for’t! ” 

Aunt Polly wiped her eyes on her apron. 

“But, Dave,” she said, “did the deakin really say— 
ihat word f ” 

“Wa’al,” he replied, “if’twa’n’t that it was the put- 
tiest imitation on’t that ever I heard.” 

“David,” she continued, “don’t you think it putty 
mean to badger the deakin so’t he swore, an’ then 
laugh ’bout it? An’ I s’pose you’ve told the story 
all over.” 

“Mis’ Bixbee,” said David emphatically, “if I’d paid 
good money to see a funny show I’d be a blamed fool if 
I didn’t laugh, wouldn’t I ? That specticle of the deakin 
cost me consid’able, but it was more’n wutli it. But,” 
he added, “I guess, the way the thing stands now, I 
ain’t so much out, on the hull.” 

Mrs. Bixbee looked at him inquiringly. 

“Of course, you know Dick Larrabee?” he asked. 

She nodded. 

“Wa’al, three four days after the shower, an’ 
the story ’d got aroun’ some—as you say, the 
deakin is consid’able of a talker—I got holt 
of Dick —I’ve done 
him some favors an’ 
he natur’ly expects 
more—an’ I says to 
him : i Dick,’ I says, 

‘I hear ’t Deakin 
Perkins has got 




DAVID HARUM 


2 5 


- / m 

. i if" 


a lioss that don’t jest suit him—hain’t got knee -action 
enough at times/ I says, ‘an’ mebbe he’ll sell him rea¬ 
sonable.’ ‘I’ve heerd somethin’ about it/ says Dick, 
laughin’. ‘One of them kind o’ bosses’t you don’t like 
to git ketched out in the rain 
with/ he says. ‘Jes’ so/ I 
says. ‘Now/ I says, ‘I’ve 
got a notion 
like to 
own that 
lioss at a 
price, an’ 
that meb¬ 
be I c’d 
git him 
home even 
if it did rain. Her 
a hunderd an’ 

I says, ‘an’ I w 
to see how fur it’ll go to 
buyin’ him. If you git 
me the hoss you needn’t bring none on’t back. Want 
to try ? ’ I says. ‘ All right/ he says, an’ took the money. 
‘But/ he says, ‘won’t the deakin suspicion that it comes 
from you % ’ ‘ Wa’al/ I says, ‘ my portrit ain’t on none o’ 
the bills, an’ I reckon you won’t tell him so, out an’ out/ 
an’ off he went. Yistid’y he come in, an’ I says, ‘Wa’al, 
done anythin’?’ ‘The hoss is in your barn/ he says. 
‘ Good fer you ! ’ I says. ‘ Did you make anythin’ ? ’ ‘ I’m 
satisfied/ he says. ‘I made a ten-dollar note.’ An’ 
that’s the net results on’t,” concluded David, “that I've 
got the hoss, an’ lie’s cost me jes’ thirty-five dollars.” 
















CHAPTER III 

Master Jacky Carling was a very nice boy, but not 
at that time in his career the safest person to whom to 
intrust a missive in case its sure and speedy delivery 
were a matter of importance. But he protested with 
so much earnestness and good will that it should be put 
into the very first post-box he came to on his way to 
school, and that nothing could induce him to forget it, 
that Mary Blake, his aunt, confidante and not unfre¬ 
quently counsel and advocate, gave it him to post, and 
dismissed the matter from her mind. Unfortunately, 
the weather, which had been very frosty, had changed 
in the night to a summer-like mildness. As Jacky 
opened the door, three or four of his school-fellows were 
passing. He felt the softness of the spring morning, 
and to their injunction to “Hurry up and come along ! ” 
replied with an entreaty to wait a minute till he left 
his overcoat (all boys hate an overcoat), and plunged 
back into the house. 

If John Lenox (John Knox Lenox) had received 
Miss Blake’s note of condolence and sympathy, written 
in reply to his own, wherein, besides speaking of his 







DAVID HARL'M 


2 7 


bereavement, lie had made allusion to some changes in 
his prospects and’some necessary alterations in his ways 
for a time, he might perhaps have read between the lines 
something more than merely a kind expression of her 
sorrow for the trouble which had come upon him, and 
the reminder that lie had friends who, if they could 
not do more to lessen his grief, would give him their 
truest sympathy. And if some days later he had re¬ 
ceived a second note, saying that she and her people 
were about to go away for some months, and asking 
him to come and see them before their departure, it is 
possible that very many things set forth in this narra¬ 
tive would not have happened. 

Life had always been made easy for John Lenox, and 
his was not the temperament to interpose obstacles to 
the process. A course at Andover had been followed 
by two years at Princeton ; but at the end of the second 
year it had occurred to him that practical life ought 
to begin for him, and he had thought it rather fine of 
himself to undertake a clerkship in the office of Rush 
& Co., where, in the ensuing year and a half or so, 
though he took his work in moderation, he got a fair 
knowledge of accounts and the ways and methods of 
“the Street.” But that period of it was enough. He 
found himself not only regretting the abandonment of 
his college career, but feeling that the thing for which 
he had given it up had been rather a waste of time. 
He came to the conclusion that, though he had entered 
college later than most, even now a further accpiaint- 
ance with text-books and professors was more to be de¬ 
sired than with ledgers and brokers. His father 
(somewhat to his wonderment, and possibly a little to 


28 


DAVID HARUM 


his chagrin) seemed rather to welcome the suggestion 
that he spend a couple of years in Europe, taking some 
lectures at Heidelberg or elsewhere, and traveling j 
and in the course of that time he acquired a pretty fair 
working acquaintance with German, brought his 
knowledge of French up to about the same point, and 
came back at the end of two years with a fine and dis¬ 
criminating taste in beer, and a scar over his left eye¬ 
brow which could be seen if attention were called to it. 

He started upon his return without any definite in¬ 
tentions or for any special reason, except that he had 
gone away for two years and that the two years were 
up. He had carried on a desultory correspondence 
with his father, who had replied occasionally, rather 
briefly, but on the whole affectionately. He had no¬ 
ticed that during the latter part of his stay abroad the 
replies had been more than usually irregular, but had 
attributed no special significance to the fact. It was 
not until afterward that it occurred to him that in all 
their correspondence his father had never alluded in 
any way to his return. 

On the passenger list of the Altruria John came upon 
the names of Mr. and Mrs. Julius Carling and Miss 
Blake. 

‘Blake, Blake,” he said to himself. “Carling—I 
seem to remember to have known that name at some 
time. It must be little Mary Blake, whom I knew as 
a small girl years ago, and—yes, Carling was the name 
of the man her sister married. AY ell, well, I wonder 
what she is like. Of course, I shouldn’t know her from 
Eve now, or she me from Adam. All I can remember 
seems to be a pair of very slim and active legs, a lot of 
flying hair, a pair of brownish-gray or grayish-brown 


DAVID HARUM 


2 9 

eyes, and that I thought her a very nice girl, as girls 
went. But it doesn’t in the least follow that I might 
think so now, and shipboard is pretty close quarters 
for seven or eight days.” 

Dinner is by all odds the chief event of the day on 
board ship to those who are able to dine, and they will 
leave all other attractions, even the surpassingly inter¬ 
esting things which go on in the smoking-room, at once 
on the sound of the gong of promise. On this first night 
of the voyage the ship was still in smooth water at 
dinner-time, and many a place was occupied that would 
know its occupant for the first, and very possibly for 
the last, time. The passenger list was fairly large, but 
not full. John had assigned to him a seat at a side 
table. He was hungry, having had no luncheon but a 
couple of biscuits and a glass of “bitter,” and was taking 
his first mouthful of Perrier-Jouet, after the soup, and 
scanning the dinner-card, when the people at his table 
came in. The man of the trio was obviously an invalid 
of the nervous variety, and the most decided type. 
The small, dark woman who took the corner seat at 
his left was undoubtedly, from the solicitous way in 
which she adjusted a small shawl about his shoulders— 
to his querulous uneasiness—his wife. There was a 
good deal of white in the dark hair brushed smoothly 
back from her face. A tall girl, with a mass of brown 
hair under <x felt traveling hat, followed her, and took 
the corner seat at the man’s right. 

These were all the details of the party’s appearance 
that John discovered in the brief glance he allowed 
himself at the moment. But though their faces, so far 
as he had seen them, were unfamiliar to him, their 
identity was made plain to him by the first words 


DAVID HARUM 



which caught his ear. There were two soups on the 
menu , and the man’s mind instantly poised itself be¬ 
tween them. 

“Which soup shall I take?” he asked, turning with 
a frown of uncertainty to his wile. 

“I should say the consomme : , Julius,” was the reply. 

“I thought I should like the broth better,” he 
objected. 


“I don’t think it will disagree with you,” she said. 

“Perhaps I had better have the consomme ,” he argued, 
looking with appeal to his wife and then to the girl at 
his right. “Which would you take, Mary?” 

“I?” said the young woman. “I should take both in 
my present state of appetite. Steward, bring both 
soups. What wine shall I order for you, Julius? I 
want some champagne, and I prescribe it for you. 
After your mental struggle over the soup question you 
need a quick stimulant.” 

“Don’t you think a red wine would be better for 
me?” he asked; “or perhaps some Sauterne? I’m 

« fs afraid that I sha’n’t go to sleep if I drink 
^ytyjj champagne. In fact, I don’t think I had 

better take any wine at all. Perhaps 
some ginger ale or Apollinaris water.” 

“No,” she said decisively, “whatever 
you decide upon, you know that you ’ll 
think what I have would be better for you, and I shall 
want more than one glass, and Alice wants some, too. 
Oh, yes, you do ; and I shall order a quart of champagne. 
Steward,”—giving her order,—“please be as quick as 
you can.” 

John had by this fully identified his neighbors, and 
the talk which ensued between them, consisting mostly 



DAVID HARUM 


3 1 


of controversies between the invalid and his family 
over the items of the bill of fare, every course being 
discussed as to its probable effect upon his stomach or 
his nerves—the question being usually settled with a 
whimsical high-handedness by t he young woman—gave 
him a pretty good notion of their relat ions and the state 
of affairs in general. Notwithstanding Miss Blake’s 
benevolent despotism, the invalid was still wrangling 
feebly over some last dish when John rose and 
went to the smoking-room for his coffee and 
cigarette. 

When he stumbled forth in search of his bath 
next morning the steamer was well out at sea, 
and rolling and pitching in a way calculated to 
disturb the gastric functions of the hardiest. 

But, after a shower of sea water and a rub down, 
he found himself with a feeling for bacon and 
eggs that made him proud of himself, and he 
went in to breakfast, to find, rather to his sur¬ 
prise, that Miss Blake was before him, looking as 
fresh—well, as fresh as a handsome girl of nine¬ 
teen or twenty and in perfect health could look. 

She acknowledged his perfunctory 
bow as he took his seat with a stiff 
little bend of the head 5 but later on, 
when the steward was absent on some order, he elicited 
a “Thank you !” by handing her something which he 
saw she wanted ; and, one thing leading to another, as 
things have a way of doing where young and attractive 
people are concerned, they were presently engaged in 
an interchange of small talk. But before John was 
moved to the point of disclosing himself 011 the warrant 
of a former acquaintance she had finished her breakfast. 

7 





DAVID HARUM 


3 2 

The weather continued very stormy ior two days, 
and during that time Miss Blake did not appear at 
table. At any rate, if she breakfasted there it was 
either before or after his appearance, and he learned 
afterward that she had taken luncheon and dinner in 
her sister’s room. 

The morning of the third day broke bright and clear. 
There was a long swell upon the sea, but the motion ol 
the boat was even and endurable to all but the most 
susceptible. As the morning advanced the deck began 
to fill with promenaders, and to be lined with chairs 
holding wrapped-up figures showing faces of all shades 
of green and gray. 

John, walking for exercise, and at a wholly unneces¬ 
sary pace, turning at a sharp angle around the deck¬ 
house, fairly ran into the girl about whom he had been 
wondering for the last two days. She received his 
somewhat incoherent apologies, regrets, and self-accu¬ 
sations in such a spirit of forgiveness that before long 
they were supplementing their first conversation with 
something more personal and satisfactory; and when 
he came to the point of saying that half by accident he 
had found out her name, and begged to be allowed to 
tell her his own, she looked at him with a smile of 
frank amusement, and said : “It is quite unnecessary, 
Mr. Lenox. I knew you instantly when I saw you at 
table the first night; but,” she added mischievously, “I 
am afraid your memory for people you have known is 
not so good as mine.” 

“Well,” said John, “you will admit, I think, that 
the change from a little girl in short frocks to a tall 
young woman in a tailor-made gown is more disguising 
than that which happens to a boy of fifteen or so. I 


DAVID HARUM 


33 

saw your name in Uie passenger list with Mr. and Mrs. 
Carling, and wondered if it could be the Mary Blake 
whom I really did remember; and the first night at 
dinner, when I heard 
your sister call Mr. Car¬ 
ling ‘ Julius,’ and heard 
him call you ‘Mary,’ 

I was sure of you. But 
I hardly got a fair look at your face, and, indeed, I 
confess that if I had had no clew at all I might not 
have recognized you.” 

“I think you would have been quite excusable,” she 
replied, “and whether you would or would not have 
known me is ‘one of those things that no fellow can 
find out,’ and isn’t of supreme importance anyway. 
We each know who the other is now, at all events.” 

“Yes,” said John, “I am happy to think that we have 
come to a conclusion on that point. But how does it 
happen that I have heard nothing of you all these 
years, or you of me, as I suppose? ” 

“For the reason, I fancy,” she replied, “that during 
that period of short frocks with me my sister married 
Mr. Carling and took me with her to Chicago, where Mr. 
Carling was in business. We have been back in Yew 
York only for the last two or three years.” 

“It might have been on the cards that I should 
come across you in Europe,” said John. “The beaten 
track is not very broad. How long have you been 
over?” 

“Only about six months,” she replied. “We have 
been at one or another of the German spas most of the 
time, as we went abroad for Mr. Carling’s health, and 
we are on our way home on about such an impulse as 


















DAVID HA RUM 


34 

that which started ns away—he thinks now that he 
will be better there.” 

“I am afraid you have not derived much pleasure 
from your European experiences/’ said John. 

“Pleasure!” she exclaimed. “If ever you saw a 
young woman who was glad and thankful to turn her 
face toward home, I am that person. I think that one 
of the heaviest crosses humanity has to bear is having 
constantly to decide between two or more absolutely 
trivial conclusions in one’s own affairs; but when one 
is called upon to multiply one’s useless perplexities by, 
say, ten, life is really a burden. 

“I suppose,” she added after a pause, “you couldn’t 
help hearing our discussions at dinner the other night, 
and I have wondered a little what you must have 
thought.” 

“Yes,” he said, “I did hear it. Is it the regular thing, 
if I may ask ? ” 

“Oh, yes,” she replied, with a tone of sadness ; “it has 
grown to be.” » 

“It must be very trying at times,” John remarked. 

“It is, indeed,” she said, “and would often be 

unendurable to me if it 
were not for my sense of 
humor, as it would be to my 
sister if it were not for her 
love, for Julius is really a 
very lovable man, and I, too, 
am very fond of him. But I 
must laugh sometimes, though 
my better nature should rather, I suppose, impel me 
to sighs.” 

“‘A little laughter is much more worth,’ ” he quoted. 





CHAPTER IV 

They were leaning upon tlie rail at the stern of the 
ship, which was going with what little wind there was, 
and a following sea, with which, as it plunged down 
the long slopes of the waves, the vessel seemed to be 
running a victorious race. The water was a deep sap¬ 
phire, and in the wake the sunlight turned the broken 
wave-crests to a vivid emerald. The air was of a caress¬ 
ing softness, and altogether it was a day and scene 
of indescribable beauty and inspiration. For a while 
there was silence between them, which John broke at 
last. 

“I suppose,” he said, “that one would best show his 
appreciation of all this by refraining from the comment 
which must needs be comparatively commonplace, but 
really this is so superb that I must express some of my 
emotion even at the risk of lowering your opinion of 
my good taste, provided, of course, that you have one.” 

“Well,” she said, laughing, “it may relieve your 
mind, if you care, to know that had you kept silent an 
instant longer I should have taken the risk of lowering 
your opinion of my good taste—provided, of course, 
that you have one—by remarking that this was per¬ 
fectly magnificent.” 

“I should think that this would be the sort of day to 













DAVID HARUM 



get Mr. Carling on deck. This air and sun would brace 
him up/’ said John. 

She turned to him with a laugh, and said: “That is 



the general opinion, or was two hours ago ; but I’m 
afraid it’s out of the question now, unless we can man¬ 
age it after luncheon.” 

“What do you mean ? ” he asked, with a puzzled smile 
at the mixture of annoyance and amusement visible in 
her face. “Same old story?” 

“Yes,” she replied, “same old story. When I went 
to my breakfast I called at my sister’s room and said, 

. “Tome, boys and girls, come 

out to play, the sun doth shine 
as bright as day,” and when 
I ’ve had my breakfast I ’m 
coining to lug you both on 
deck. It’s a perfectly glorious 
morning, and it will do you 
both no end of good after being 
shut up so long.’ ‘All 
light,’ my sister an¬ 
swered, ‘Julius has quite 
made up his mind to 
go up as soon as he is 
dressed. You call 
for us in half an 
hour, and we shall 
be ready.’ ” 

“And wouldn’t lie come?” John asked; “and why 


T ' 1 


not? ” 


“Oh,” she exclaimed, with a laugh and a shrug of her 
shoulders, “shoes.” 

“Shoes ! ” said John. “What do you mean?” 








DAVID HARUM 


37 


“Just what r say,” was the rejoinder. “When I 
went back to the room I found my brother-in-law sit¬ 
ting on the edge of the lounge, or whatever yon call 
it, all dressed but his coat, rubbing his chin between 
his finger and thumb, and gazing with despairing per¬ 
plexity at his feet. It seems that my sister had got 
past all the other dilemmas, but in a moment of inad¬ 
vertence had left the shoe question to him, with the re¬ 
sult that he had put on one russet shoe and one black 
one, and had laced them up before discovering the 
discrepancy.” 

“I don’t see anything very difficult in that situation,” 
remarked John. 

“Don’t you?” she said scornfully. “No, I suppose 
not; but it was quite enough for Julius, and more than 
enough for my sister and me. His first notion was to 
take off both shoes and begin all over again, and per¬ 
haps if he had been allowed to carry it out he would 
have been all right; but Alice was silly enough to sug¬ 
gest the obvious thing to him—to take off one, and put 
on the mate to the other—and then the trouble began. 
First he was in favor of the black shoes as being thicker 
in the sole, and then he reflected that they hadn’t been 
blackened since coming on board. It seemed to him 
that the russets were more appropriate anyway, but 
the blacks were easier to lace. Had I noticed whether 
the men on board were wearing russet, or black, as a 
rule, and did Alice remember whether it was one of 
the russets, or one of the blacks, that he was saying, the 
other day, pinched his toe? He didn’t quite like the 
looks of a russet shoe with dark trousers, and called us 
to witness that those he had on were dark ; but he 
thought he remembered that it was the black shoe 


DAVID HARIIM 


38 

which pinched him. He supposed he could change his 
trousers—and so on, and so on, al fine, da capo , ad lib 
sticking out first one foot and then the other, lifting 
them alternately to his knee for scrutiny, appealing 
now to Alice and now to me, and getting more hope¬ 
lessly bewildered all the time. It went on in that way 
for, it seemed to me, at least half an hour, and at last 
I said, ‘Oh, come now, Julius, take off the brown shoe 
—it’s too thin, and doesn’t go with your dark trousers, 
and pinches your toe, and none of the men are wearing 
them—and just put on the other black one, and come 
along. We’re all suffocating for some fresh air, and if 
you don’t get started pretty soon we sha’n’t get on 
deck to-day.’ ‘Get on deck!’ he said, looking up at 
me with a puzzled expression, and holding fast to the 
brown shoe on his knee with both hands, as if he were 
afraid I would take it away from him by main strength 
—‘get on deck ! Why—why—I believe I’d better not 
go out this morning, don’t you?’” 

“And then?” said John, after a pause. 

“Oh,” she replied, “I looked at Alice, and she shook 
her head as much to say, ‘It’s no use for the present,’ 
and I tied the place.” 

“M’m! ” muttered John. “He must have been a 
nice traveling companion. Has it been like that all 
the time ? ” 

“Most of it,” she said, “but not quite all, and this 
morning was rather an exaggeration of the regular 
thing. But getting started on a journey was usually 
pretty awful. Once we quite missed our train because 
he couldn’t make up his mind whether to put on a light 
overcoat or a heavy one. I finally settled the question 
for him, but we were just too late.” 


DAVID HARUM 


39 

“You must Ik* a very amiable person,” remarked 
John. 

“Indeed, I am not,’ 7 she declared, “but Julius is, and 
it’s almost impossible to be really put out with him, 
particularly in his condition. I have come to believe 
that he cannot help it, and he submits to my bullying 
with such sweetness that even my impatience gives 
way.” 

“Have you three people been alone together all the 
time?” John asked. 

“Yes,” she replied, “except for four or five weeks. 
\Y r e visited some American friends in Berlin, the Nol- 
lises, for a fortnight, and after our visit 
to them they traveled with us for 
three weeks through South Germany 
and Switzerland. We parted with 
them at Metz only about three weeks 
since.” 

“How did Mr. Carling seem while you 
were all together?” asked John, looking 
keenly at her. 

“Oh,” she replied, “he was more like 
himself than I have seen lam for a 
long time—since he began to break down, in fact.” 

He turned his eyes from her face as she looked up at 
him, and as he did not speak she said suggestively, 
“You are thinking something you don’t quite like to 
say, but I believe I know pretty nearly what it is.” 

“Yes?” said John, with a query. 

“You think he has had too much feminine compan¬ 
ionship, or had it too exclusively. Is that it? You 
need not be afraid to say so.” 

“Well,” said John, “if you put it ‘too exclusively,’ I 
8 




4° 


DAVID HARUM 


will admit that there was something of the sort in my 
mind; and/ 7 he added, “if you will let me say so, it 
must at times have been rather hard for him to be in¬ 
terested or amused—that it must have—that is to 
say— 77 

“Oh, smy it! 77 she exclaimed. “It must have been 
very dull for him. Is that it? 77 

“‘Father, 7 77 said John, with a grimace, “‘I cannot 
tell a lie ! 7 77 

“Oh, 77 she said, laughing, “your hatchet isn’t very 
sharp. I forgive you. But really, 77 she added, “I 
know it has been so. You will laugh when I tell you 
the one particular resource we fell back upon. 77 

“Bid me to laugh, and I will laugh, 77 said John. 

“Euchre! 77 she said, looking at him defiantly. 
“Two-handed euchre ! We have played, as nearly as I 
can estimate, fifteen hundred games, in which he has 
held both bowers and the ace of trumps—or something 
equally victorious—I should say fourteen hundred 
times. Oh ! 77 she cried, with an expression of loath¬ 
ing, “may I never, never, never see a card again as 
long as I live ! 77 John laughed without restraint, and 
after a petulant little moue she joined him. 

“May I light up my pipe? 77 he said. “I will get 
to leeward. 77 

“I shall not mind in the least, 77 she assented. 

“By the way, 77 he asked, “does Mr. Carling smoke? 77 

“He used to, 77 she replied, “and while we were with 
the Nollises he smoked every day, but after we left them 
lie fell back into the notion that it was bad for him. 77 

John filled and lighted his pipe in silence, and after 
a satisfactory puff or two said : “Will Mr. Carling go 
in to dinner to-night? 77 


DAVID HARUM 


4 1 

“Yes,” she replied, “I think he will if it is no 
rougher than at present.” 

“It will probably be smoother,” said John. “You 
must introduce me to him — ” 

“Oh,” she interrupted, “of course ; but it will hardly 
be necessary, as Alice and I have spoken so often to 
him of you—” 

“I was going to say,” John resumed, “that he may 
possibly let me take him off your hands a little, and 
after dinner will be the best time. I think if I can get 
him into the smoking-room, that a cigar and—and— 
something hot with a bit of lemon peel and so forth 
later on may induce him to visit with me for a while, 
and pass the evening, or part of it.” 

“You want to be an angel!” she exclaimed. “Oh. 
I—we—shall be so obliged ! I know it’s just what he 
wants—some man to take him in hand.” 

“I’m in no hurry to be an angel,” said John, laugh¬ 
ing, and, with a bow, “It’s better sometimes to be near 
the rose than to be the rose, and you are proposing to 
overpay me quite. I shall enjoy doing what I proposed, 
if it be possible.” 

Their talk then drifted off into various channels as 
topics suggested themselves until the ship's bell 
sounded the luncheon hour. Miss Blake went to join 
her sister and brother-in-law, but John had some bread 
and cheese and beer in the smoking-room. It appeared 
that the ladies had better success than in the morning, 
for he saw them later on in their steamer-chairs with 
Mr. Carling, who was huddled in many wraps, with the 
flaps of his cap down over his ears. All the chairs 
were full—John’s included (as often happens to easy- 
tempered men on shipboard) — and he had only a briel 


4- 2 


DAVID HA RUM 


colloquy with the party. He noticed, however, that 
Mr. Carling had on the russet shoes, and he wondered 
if they pinched him. In fact, though lie couldn’t have 
said exactly why, he rather hoped that they did. He 
had just that sympathy for the nerves of two-and-fifty 
which is to be expected from those of five-and-twenty 
— that is, very little. 

When he went in to dinner the Carlings and Miss 
Blake had been at table some minutes. There had 
been the usual controversy about what Mr. Carling 
would drink with his dinner, and he had decided upon 
Apollinaris water. But Miss Blake, with an idea of her 
own, had given an order for champagne, and was ex¬ 
hibiting some consternation, real or assumed, at the fact 
of having a whole bottle brought in with the cork ex¬ 
tracted—a customary trick at sea. 

“I hope you will help me out,” she said to John as 
he bowed and seated himself. “‘Some one has blun¬ 
dered,’ and here is a whole bottle of champagne 
which must be drunk to save it. Are you prepared 
to help turn my, or somebody’s, blunder into hospi¬ 
tality ? ” 

“I am prepared to make any sacrifice,” said John, 
laughing, “in the sacred cause.” 

“No less than I expected of you,” she said. “No- 
blesse oblige! Please fill your glass.” 

“Thanks,” said John. “Permit me,” and he filled 
her own as well. 

As the meal proceeded there was some desultory talk 
about the weather, the ship’s run, and so on ; but Mrs. 
Carling was almost silent, and her husband said but lit¬ 
tle more. Even Miss Blake seemed to have something 
on her mind, and contributed but little to the eon vena- 


DAVID HA RUM 


43 

lion. Presently Mr. Carling said, “Mary, do you think 
a mouthful of wine would hurt me?” 

“Certainly not,” was the reply. “It will do you 
good,” reaching over for his glass and pouring the wine. 

“That’s enough, that’s enough ! ” he protested as the 
foam came up to the rim of the glass. She proceeded 
to fill it up to the brim and put it beside him, and 
later, as she had opportunity, kept it replenished. 

As the dinner concluded, John said to Mr. Carling : 
“Won’t you go up to the smoking-room with me for 
coffee? I like a bit of tobacco with mine, and I have 
some really good cigars, and some cigarettes—if you 
prefer them—that I can vouch for.” 

As usual, when the unexpected was presented to his 
mind, Mr. Carling passed the perplexity on to his 
women-folk. At this time, however, his dinner and 
the two glasses of wine which Miss Blake had contrived 
that he should swallow had braced him up, and John’s 
suggestion was so warmly seconded by the ladies that, 
after some feeble protests and misgivings, he yielded, 
and John carried him off. 

“I hope it won’t upset Julius,” said Mrs. Carling 
doubtfully. 

“It won’t do anything of the sort,” her sister replied. 
“He will get through the evening without worrying 
himself and you into fits, and, if Mr. Lenox succeeds, 
you won’t see anything of him till ten o’clock or after, 
and not then, I hope. Mind, you’re to be sound asleep 
when he comes in, and let him get to bed without any 
talk at all.” 

“Why do you say ‘if Mr. Lenox succeeds’?” asked 
Mrs. Carling. 

“It was his suggestion,” Miss Blake answered. “We 


44 


DAVID HA RUM 


had been talking about Julius, and he finally told me 
lie thought lie would be better for an occasional inter¬ 
val of masculine society, and I quite agreed with him. 
You know how much he enjoyed being with George 
Nollis, and how much like himself lie appeared.* 1 

“That is true,” said Mrs. Carling. 

“And you know that just as soon as he was alone 
again with us two women he began backing and filling 
as badly as ever. I believe Mr. Lenox is right, and 
that Julius is just petticoated to death between us.” 

“Did Mr. Lenox say that?” asked Mrs. Carling in¬ 
credulously. 

“No,” said her sister, laughing, “he didn’t make use 
of precisely that figure, but that was what he thought 
plainly enough.” 

“AVhat do you think of Mr. Lenox?” said Mrs. Car- 
ling irrelevantly. “Do 3 011 like him? I thought that 
he looked at you very admiringly once or twice to¬ 
night,” she added, with her eyes on her sister’s face. 

“Well,” said Mary, with a petulant toss of the head, 
“except that I’ve had about an hour’s talk with him, 
and that I knew him when we were children—at least 
when I was a child—he is a perfect stranger to me, and 
I do wish,” she added in a tone of annoyance, “that 
you would give up that fad of yours, that every man 
who comes along is going to—to—be a nuisance.” 

“He seems very pleasant,” said Mrs. Carling, meekly 
ignoring her sister’s reproach. 

“Oh, yes,” she replied indifferently, “lie’s pleasant 
enough. Let us go up and have a walk on deck. I 
want you to lie sound asleep when Julius comes in.” 



CHAPTER V 


John found his humane experiment pleasanter than ha 
expected. Mr. Carling, as was to be anticipated, de¬ 
murred a little at the coffee, and still more at the cig¬ 
arette ; but having his appetite for tobacco aroused, 
and finding that no alarming symptoms ensued, he fol¬ 
lowed it with a cigar, and later on was induced to go 
the length of u Scotch and soda,” under the pleasant 
effect of which—and John’s sympathetic efforts—he 
was for the time transformed, the younger man being 
surprised to find him a man of interesting experience, 
considerable reading, and, what was most surprising, a 
jolly sense of humor and a fund of anecdotes which he 
related extremely well. The evening was a decided 
success, perhaps the best evidence of it coming at the 












DAVID HARUM 


46 

last, when, at John’s suggestion that they supplement 
their modest potations with a “nightcap,” Mr. Carling 
cheerfully assented upon the condition that they should 
“have it with him ” 5 and as lie went along the deck after 
saying good-niglit, John was positive that he heard a 
whistled tune. 

The next day was equally fine, but during the night 
the ship had run into the swell of a storm, and in the 
morning there was more motion than the weaker ones 
could relish. The sea grew quieter as the day ad¬ 
vanced. John was early, and finished his breakfast 
before Miss Blake came in. He found her 011 deck 
about ten o’clock. She gave him her hand as they said 
good-morning, and he turned and walked by her side. 

“How is your brother-in-law this morning?” lie 
inquired. 

“Oh,” she said, laughing, “lie’s in a mixture of feel¬ 
ing very well and feeling that he ought not to feel so, 
but, as they are coming up pretty soon, it would ap¬ 
pear that the misgivings are not overwhelming. He 
came in last night, and retired without saying a word. 
My sister pretended to be asleep. She says he went 
to sleep at once, and that she was awake at intervals 
and knows that he slept like a top. He won’t make 
any very sweeping admissions, however, but has gone 
so far as to concede that he had a very pleasant even¬ 
ing—which is going a long way for him—and to say 
that you are a very agreeable young man. There ! I 
didn’t intend to tell you that, but vou have been so 
good that perhaps so much as a second-hand compli¬ 
ment is no more than your due.” 

“Thank you very much,” said John. “Mr. Carling is 
evidently a very discriminating person. Really it 


DAVID HARUM 


47 


wasn’t good of me at all. I was quite the gainer, for 
he entertained me more than I did him. We had a 
very pleasant evening, and I hope we shall have more 
of them—I do, indeed. I got an entirely different im¬ 
pression of him,” he added. 

“Yes,” she said, “I can imagine that you did. He 
can be very agreeable, and he is really a man of a great 
deal of character when he is himself. He has been 
goodness itself to me, and has managed my affairs for 
years. Even to-day his judgment in business matters 
is wonderfully sound. If it had not been 
for him,” she continued, “I don’t know 
but I should have been a pauper. My 
father left a large estate, but he died very 
suddenly, and his affairs were very much 
spread out and involved, and had to be 
carried along. Julius put himself into 
the breach, and not only saved our for¬ 
tunes, but has considerably increased them. Of course, 
Alice is his wife, but I feel very grateful to him on my 
own account. I did not altogether appreciate it at the 
time, but now I shudder to think that I might have 
had either to ‘fend for myself’ or be dependent.” 

“I don’t think that dependence would have suited 
your book,” was John’s comment as he took in the 
lines of her clear-cut face. 

“No,” she replied, “and I thank Heaven that I have 
not had to endure it. I am not,” she added, “so im¬ 
pressed with what money procures for people as what 
it saves them from.” 

“Yes,” said John, “I think your distinction is just. 
To possess it is to be free from some of the most dis¬ 
agreeable apprehensions, certainly, but I confess, 

9 




DAVID HARUM 


48 

whether to my credit or my shame I don’t know, that I 
have never thought much about it. I certainly am 
not rich positively, and I haven’t the faintest notion 
whether I may or not be prospectively. I have always 
had as much as I really needed, and 
perhaps more, but I know absolutely 
nothing about the future.” 

They were leaning over the rail 011 
the port side. 

“I should think,” she said after a 
moment, looking at him thoughtfully, 
“that it was, if you will not consider me 
presuming, a matter about which you 
might have some justifiable curiosity.” 

“Oh, not at all,” he assured her, step¬ 
ping to leeward and producing a cigar. 
“I have had some such stirrings of late. 
And please don’t think me an incorrigi¬ 
ble idler. I spent nearly two years in 
a down-town office, and earned—well, say 
half my salary. I11 fact, my business in¬ 
stincts were so strong that I left college 
after my second year for that purpose; 
but seeing no special chance of advance¬ 
ment in the race for wealth, and as my 
father seemed rather to welcome the idea, 
I broke off and went over to Germany. 
I haven’t been quite idle, though I should be puzzled, 
I admit, to find a market for what I have to offer to 
the world. Would you be interested in a schedule 
of my accomplishments?” 

“Oh,” she said, “I should be charmed ; but as I am 
every moment expecting the advent of my family, and 









DAVID HARUM 


49 

as I am relied upon to locate them and tuck them up, 
I'm afraid I shall not have time to hear it.” 

u No,” he said, laughing, “it’s quite too long.” 

She was silent for some moments, gazing down into 
the water, apparently debating something in her mind, 
and quite unconscious of John’s scrutiny. Finally she 
turned to him with a little laugh. “You might begin 
on your list, and if I am called away you can finish it 
at another time.” 

“I hope you didn’t think I was speaking in earnest,” 
he said. 

“No,” she replied, “I did not think you really in¬ 
tended to unpack your wares; but, speaking seriously 
—and at the risk, I fear, that you may think me 
rather 1 cheeky,’ if I may be allowed that ex¬ 
pression—I know a good many men in America, 
and I think that without an exception they are 
professional men or business men, or, being 
neither—and I know but few such—have a com¬ 
petence or more ; and I was wondering just now, 
after what you told me, what a man like you 
would or could do if he were thrown upon his 
own resources. I’m afraid that is rather frank 
for the acquaintance of a day, isn’t it?” she 
asked, with a slight flush, “but it really is not 
so personal as it may sound to you.” 

“My dear Miss Blake,” he replied, “our ac¬ 
quaintance goes back at least ten years. Please 
let that fact count for something in your mind. 

The truth is, I have done some wondering along that 
same line myself without coming to any satisfactory 
conclusion. I devoutly hope I may not be so thrown 
absolutely, for the truth is I haven’t a marketable com- 






5 ° 


DAVID HARUM 


modity. t A little Latin, and less Greek/ German and 
French enough to read and understand and talk—on 
the surface of things—and what mathematics, history, 
et cetera, I have not forgotten. I know the piano well 
enough to read and play an accompaniment after a 
fashion, and I have had some good teaching for the 
voice, and some experience in singing, at home and 
abroad. In fact, I come nearer to a market there, I 
think, than in any other direction perhaps. I have 
given some time to fencing in various schools, and 
before I left home Billy Williams would sometimes 
speak encouragingly of my progress with the gloves. 
There ! that is my list, and not a dollar in it from 
beginning to end, ITn afraid.” 

“Who is Billy Williams?” she asked. 

“Billy,” said John, “is the very mild-mannered and 
gentlemanlike ‘bouncer’ at the Altman House, an ex¬ 
prize-fighter, and about the most accomplished member 
of his profession of his day and weight, who is employed 
to keep order and, if necessary, to thrust out the riot¬ 
ous who would disturb the contemplations of the lovers 
of art that frequent the bar of that hotel.” 

It was to be seen that Miss Blake was not particularly 
impressed by this description of Billy and his functions, 
upon which she made no comment. “You have not 
included in your list,” she remarked, “what you ac¬ 
quired in the down-town office you told me of.” 

“Yo ; upon my word, I had forgotten that, and it’s 
about the only thing of use in the whole category,” he 
answered. “If I were put to it, and could find a place, 
I think I might earn fifty dollars a month as a clerk 
or messenger, or something. Hullo ! here are your 
people.” 


DAVID HARUM 


5i 

He went forward with his companion and greeted 
Mrs. Carling and her husband, wdio returned his good¬ 
morning with a feeble smile, and submitted to his 
ministrations in the matter of chair and 
rugs with an air of unresisting invalidism 
which was almost too obvious, he thought. 

But after luncheon John managed to in¬ 
duce him to walk for a while, to smoke a 
cigarette, and finally to brave the perils 
of a sherry and bitters before dinner. 

The ladies had the afternoon to them¬ 
selves. John had no chance of a further 
visit with Mary during the day, a loss 
only partially made good to him by a very approving 
smile and a remark which she made to him at dinner, 
that he must be a lineal descendant of the Samaritan. 

Mr. Carling submitted himself to him for the 
evening. Indeed, it came about that for 
the rest of the voyage he had rather more of 
the company of that gentleman, who fairly 
attached himself to him, than, under all the 
circumstances, he cared for 5 but the grati¬ 
tude of the ladies was so cordial that he felt 
paid for some sacrifices of his inclinations. 
And there was an hour or so every morning 
—for the fine weather lasted through—which 
he spent with Mary Blake, with increasing 
interest and pleasure, and he found himself 
inwardly rejoicing over a mishap to the en¬ 
gine which, though of no very great mag¬ 
nitude,’would retard the passage by a couple of days. 

There can hardly be any conditions more favorable 
to the forming of acquaintanceships, friendships, and 








5 2 


DAVID HARUM 


even more tender relations, than are afforded by the 
life on board ship. There is opportunity, propinquity, 
and the community of interest which breaks down the 
barriers of ordinary reserve. These relations, to be 
sure, are not always of the most lasting character, and 
not infrequently are practically ended before the parties 
thereto are out of the custom-house officer’s hands, and 
fade into nameless oblivion, unless one happens to run 



across the passenger list among one’s souvenirs. But 
there are exceptions. If at this time the question had 
been asked our friend, even by himself, whether, to put 
it plainly, he were in love with Mary Blake, he would, 
no doubt, have strenuously denied it; but it is certain 
that if any one had said or intimated that any feature 
or characteristic of hers was faulty or susceptible of 
any change for the better, he would have secretly dis- 







DAVID HARUM 


53 

liked that person, and entertained the meanest opinion 
of that person’s mental and moral attributes. He 
would have wished the voyage prolonged indefinitely, 
or, at any rate, as long as the provisions held out. 

It has been remarked by some one that all mundane 
things come to an end sooner or later, and, so far as my 
experience goes, it bears out that statement. The en¬ 
gines were successfully repaired, and the ship eventually 
came to anchor outside the harbor about eleven o’clock 
on the night of the last day. Mary and John were 
standing together at the forward rail. There had been 
but little talk between them, and only of a desultory 
and impersonal character. As the anchor-chain rattled 
in the hawse-hole, John said, “Well, that ends it.” 

“What ends what?” she asked. 

“The voyage, and the holiday, and the episode, 
and lots of things,” he replied. “We have come to 
anchor.” 

“Yes,” she said, “the voyage is over, that is true $ but, 
for my part, if the last six months can be called a holi¬ 
day, its end is welcome, and I should think you might 
be glad that your holiday is over, too. But I don’t 
quite understand what you mean by ‘the episode and 
lots of things.’ ” 

There was an undertone in her utterance which her 
companion did not quite comprehend, though it was 
obvious to him. 

“The episode of—of—our friendship, if I may call it 
so,” he replied. 

“I call it so,” she said decisively. “You have cer¬ 
tainly been a friend to all of us. This episode is over, 
to be sure, but is there any more than that?” 

“Somebody says that ‘ friendship is largely a matter 


54 


DAVID HARUM 


of streets/ ” said John gloomily. “To-morrow you will 
go your way and I shall go mine.” 

“Yes/’ she replied, rather sharply, “that is true 
enough $ but if that cynical quotation of yours has any¬ 
thing in it, it’s equally true, isn’t it, that friendship is a 
matter of cabs, and street-cars, and the elevated 
road ? Of course, we can hardly be expected 
to look you up, but Sixty-ninth Street isn’t 
exactly in California, and the whole question 
lies with yourself. I don’t know if you eare to 
be told so, but Julius and my sister like 
you very much, and will welcome you 
heartily always.” 

“Thanks, very much ! ” said John, star¬ 
ing straight out in front of him, and 
forming a determination that Sixty-ninth 
Street should see but precious little of 
Mm. She gave a side glance at him as he 
did not speak further. There was light 
enough to see the expression of his mouth, 
and she read his thought almost in words. 
She believed that she detected a sug¬ 
gestion of sentimentality on his part, 
which she resolved to keep strictly in 
abeyance; but before she realized it she had taken an 



attitude of coolness and a tone which was almost sar¬ 
castic j and then she perceived that, so far as results 
were apparent, she had carried matters somewhat 
further than she intended. Her heart smote her a little, 
too, to think that he was hurt. She really liked him 
very much, and contritely recalled how kind and 
thoughtful and unselfish he had been, and how helpful, 
and she knew that it had been almost wholly for her. 











DAVID HARUM 


55 


Yes, she was willing—and glad—to think so. But while 
she wished that she had taken a different line at the 
outset, she hated desperately to make any concession, 
and the seconds of their silence grew into minutes. She 
stole another glance at his face. It was plain that 
negotiations for harmony would have to begin with her. 
Finally she said in a quiet voice : 

“‘ Thanks, very much/ is an entirely polite expres¬ 
sion, but it isn’t very responsive.” 

“I thought it met your cordiality quite half-way,” 
was the rejoinder. “Of course, I am glad to be assured 
of Mr. and Mrs. Carling’s regard, and that they would 
be glad to see me, but I think I might have been justi¬ 
fied in hoping that you would go a little further, don’t 
you think ? ” 

He looked at her as he asked the question, but she 
did not turn her head. Presently she said in a low 
voice, and slowly, as if weighing her words : 

“Will it be enough if I say that I shall be very sorry 
if you do not come ? ” 

He put his left hand upon her right, which was rest¬ 
ing on the rail, and for two seconds she let it stay. 

“Yes,” he said, “thanks—very—much !” 

“I must go now,” she said, turning toward him, and 
for a moment she looked searchingly in his face. “Good¬ 
night,” she said, giving him her hand, and John looked 
after her as she walked down the deck, and he knew 
how it was with him. 


10 


CHAPTER YI 


John saw Miss Blake the next morning in the saloon 
among the passengers in line for the customs official. 
It was an easy conjecture that Mr. Carling’s nerves were 
not up to committing himself to a “declaration 77 of any 
sort, and that Miss Blake was undertaking the duty for 
the party. He did not see her again until he had had 
his luggage passed and turned it over to an expressman. 
As he was on his way to leave the wharf he came across 
the group, and stopped to greet them and ask if he 
could be of service, and was told that their house-man 
had everything in charge, and that they were just going 
to their carriage, which was waiting. “And, 77 said Miss 
Blake, “if you are going up town, we can offer you a 
seat. 77 

“Sha’n’t I discommode you? 77 he asked. “If you 
are sure I shall not, I shall be glad to be taken as far as 
Madison Avenue and Thirty-third Street, for I suppose 
that will be your route. 77 

“Quite sure, 77 she replied, seconded by the Carlings : 
and so it happened that John went directly home in¬ 
stead of going first to his father’s office. The weather 
was a chilly drizzle, and he was glad to be spared the 
discomfort of going about in it with hand-bag, overcoat, 
and umbrella; and he felt a certain justification in con¬ 
cluding that, after two years, a few hours more or less 
under the circumstances would make but little differ¬ 
ence. And then, too, the prospect of half or three 
quarters of an hour in Miss Blake’s company, the 
Carlings notwithstanding, was a temptation to be wel- 


DAVID HARUM 


SI 

coined. But if he had hoped or expected, as perhaps 
would have been not unnatural, to discover in that 
young woman’s air any hint or trace of the feeling she 
had exhibited, or, perhaps it should be said, to a degree 
permitted to show itself, disappointment was his por¬ 
tion. Her manner was as much in contrast with that 
of the last days of their voyage together as was the 
handsome street gown and hat in which she was now 
attired to the dress and head-gear of her steamer cos¬ 
tume ; and it almost seemed to him as if the contrasts 
bore some relation to each other. After the question 
of the carriage windows—whether they should be up or 
down, either or both, and how much—had been settled, 
and, as usual in such dilemmas, by Miss Blake, the drive 
up-town was comparatively a silent one. John’s mind 
was occupied with sundry reflections and speculations, 
of many of which his companion was the subject, and to 
some extent in noting the changes in the streets and 
buildings which an absence of two years made notice¬ 
able to him. 

Mary looked steadily out of window, lost in her own 
thoughts, save for an occasional brief response to some 
casual comment or remark of John’s. Mr. Carling had 
muffled himself past all talking, and his wife preserved 
the silence which was characteristic of her when un¬ 
urged. 

John was set down at Thirty-third Street, and, as he 
made his adieus, Mrs. Carling said, “Do come and see 
us as soon as you can, Mr. Lenox ” ; but Miss Blake 
simply said “Good-by” as she gave him her hand for 
an instant, and he went on to his father’s house. 

He let himself in with the latch-key which he had 
carried through all his absence, but was at once encoun- 


DAVID HARUM 


58 



tered by Jeffrey, who, with his wife, had for years con¬ 
stituted the domestic staff of the Lenox household. 

“Well, Jeff/’ said John, as he shook hands heartily 
with the old servant, “how are you! and how is Ann! 

You don’t look a day older, and the 
climate seems to agree with you, eh!” 

“You’re welcome home, Mr. John,” 
replied Jeffrey 5 “an’ thank you, sir, me 
an’ Ann is very well, sir. It’s a pleasure 
. to see you again, an’ home—it is, indeed.” 

“Thank you, Jeff,” said John. “It’s 
rather nice to be back. Is my room 
ready! ” 

“Yes, sir,” said Jeffrey, “I think it’s 
all right, though we thought that maybe 
it’d be later in the day when you got here, sir. We 
thought maybe you’d go to Mr. Lenox’s office first.” 

“I did intend to,” said John, mounting the stairs, 
followed by Jeffrey with his bag, “but I had a chance 
to drive up with some friends, and the day is so beastly 
that I took advantage of it. How is my father!” he 
asked after entering the chamber, which struck him as 
being so strangely familiar and so familiarly strange. 

“Well, sir,” said Jeffrey, “he’s much about the same 
most ways, an’ then again lie’s different, too. Seeing 
him every day, perhaps I wouldn’t notice so much ; but 
if I was to say that he’s kind of quieter, perhaps tliat’d 
be what I mean, sir.” 

“Well,” said John, smiling, “my father was about the 
quietest person I ever knew, and if he’s grown more so 
—what do you mean!” 

“Well, sir,” replied the man, “I notice at table, sir, for 
one thing. We’ve been alone here off and on a good bit, 

















DAVID HARUM 


59 

sir, an? he used always to have a pleasant word or two 
to say to me, an’ maybe to ask me questions an’ that, 
sir ; but for a long time lately he hardly seems to notice 
me. Of course, there ain’t any need of his saying any¬ 



thing, because I know all he wants, seeing I’ve waited 
on him so long, but it’s different in a way, sir.” 

“Does he go out in the evening to his club?” asked 

John. 

“Very rarely, sir,” said Jeffrey. “He mostly goes to 
his room after dinner, an’ often I hear him walking up 
an’ down, up an’ down 5 an’, sir,” he added, “you know 






























6o 


DAVID HARUM 


lie often used to have some of liis friends to dine with 
him, an’ that ain’t happened in, I should guess, for a 
year.” 

“Have things gone wrong with him in any’way ?” 
said John, a sudden anxiety overcoming some reluc¬ 
tance to question a servant on such a subject. 

“You mean about business, and such like?” replied 
Jeffrey. “No, sir, not so far as I know. You know, 
Mr. John, sir, that I pay all the house accounts, an’ 
there hasn’t never been no—no shortness, as I might 
say ; but we’re living a bit simpler than we used to—in 
the matter of wine an’ such like—an’, as I told you, we 
don’t have comp’ny no more.” 

“Is that all?” asked John, with some relief. 

“Well, sir,” was the reply, “perhaps it’s because Mr. 
Lenox is getting older an’ don’t care so much about 
such things ; but I have noticed that he hasn’t had any¬ 
thing new from the tailor in a long time, an’ really, sir, 
though perhaps I oughtn’t to say it, his things is getting 
a bit shabby, sir, an’ he used to be always so partic’lar.” 

John got up and walked over to the window which 
looked out at the rear of the house. The words of the 
old servant disquieted him, notwithstanding that there 
was nothing,so far, that could not be accounted for with¬ 
out alarm. Jeffrey waited for a moment and then 
asked : 

“Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. John ! AVill 
you be having luncheon here, sir?” 

“No, thank you, Jeff,” said John, “nothing more 
now; and I will lunch here. I’ll come down and see 
Ann presently.” 

“Thank you, sir,” said Jeffrey, and withdrew. 

The view from the back windows of most city houses 


DAVID HARUM 


61 


is not calculated to arouse enthusiasm at the best of 
times, and the day was singularly dispiriting : a sky of 
lead and a drizzling rain, which emphasized the squalor 
of the back yards in view. It was all very depressing. 
Jelfrey’s talk, though inconclusive, had stirred in John’s 
mind an uneasiness which was near to apprehension. 
He turned and walked about the familiar 
room, recognizing the well-known furni¬ 
ture, his mother’s picture over the mantel, 
the book-shelves filled with his boyhood’s 
accumulations, the well-remembered pat¬ 
tern of the carpet, and the wall-paper- 
nothing was changed. It was all as he had 
left it two years ago, and for the time it 
seemed as if he had merely dreamed the 
life and experiences of those years. In¬ 
deed, it was with difficulty 
that he recalled any of 
them for the moment. 

And then suddenly there 
came into his mind the " 
thought that he was at 
the beginning of a new 
epoch—that on this day 
his boyhood ended; for up to then he had been but a 
boy. The thought was very vivid. It had come, the 
time when he must take upon himself the responsi¬ 
bilities of his own life, and make it for himself; the time 
which he had looked forward to as to come some day, 
but not hitherto at any particular moment, and so not 
to be very seriously considered. 

It has been said that life had always been made easy 
for him, and that he had accepted the situation without 









62 


DAVID HARUM 


protest. To easy-going natures the thought of any 
radical change in the current of affairs is usually un¬ 
welcome, but he was too young to find it really repug¬ 
nant 5 and then, too, as he walked about the room with 
his hands in his pockets, it was further revealed to him 
that he had recently found a motive and impulse such 
as he had never had before. He recalled the talk that 
he had had with the companion of his voyage. He 
thought of her as one who could be tender to misfortune 
and charitable to incapacity, but who would have 
nothing but scorn for shiftlessness and malingering ; and 
he realized that he had never cared for anything so 
much as for the good opinion of that young woman. 
No, there should be for him no more sauntering in the 
vales and groves, no more of loitering or dallying. He 
would take his place in the working world, and perhaps 
—some day— 

The thought came to him with the impact of a blow : 
What could he do! What work was there for him! 
How could he pull his weight in the boat! All his life 
he had depended upon some one else, with easy-going 
thoughtlessness. Hardly ever had it really occurred to 
him that he might have to make a career for himself. 
Of business he had thought as something which he 
should undertake some time, but it was always a busi¬ 
ness ready made to his hand, with plenty of capital not 
of his own acquiring—something for occupation, not of 
necessity. It came home to him that his father was 
his only resource, and that of his father’s affairs he 
knew next to nothing. 

In addition to his affection for him, he had always 
had an unquestioning confidence in his father. It was 
his earliest recollection, and he still retained it to an 


DAVID HA RUM 


6 3 

almost childish extent. There had always been plenty. 
His own allowance, from time to time increased, though 
never extravagant, had always been ample ; and on the 
one occasion when he had grievously exceeded it the 
excess had been paid with no more protest than a gentle 
“I think you ought not to have done this.” The two 
had lived together, when John was at home, without 
ostentation or any appearance of style, but with every 
essential of luxury. The house and its furnishings were 
old-fashioned, but everything was of the best, and when 
three or four of the elder man’s friends would come to 
dine, as happened occasionally, the contents of the 
cellar made them look at one another over their glasses. 
Mr. Lenox was very reticent in all matters relating to 
himself, and in his talks with his son, which were mostly 
at the table, rarely spoke of business matters in general, 
and almost never of his own. He had read well, and 
was fond of talking of his reading when he felt in the 
vein of talking, which was not always; but John had 
invariably found him ready with comment and sym¬ 
pathy upon the topics in which he himself had interest, 
and there was a strong if undemonstrative affection 
between the father and son. 

It was not strange, perhaps, all things considered, 
that John had come even to nearly six-and-twenty with 
no more settled intentions—that his boyhood should 
have been so long. He was not at all of a reckless dis¬ 
position, and, notwithstanding the desultory way in 
which he had spent time, he had strong mental and 
moral fiber, and was capable of feeling deeply and en- 
duringly. He had been desultory, but never before had 
he had much reason or warning against it. But now, 
he reflected, a time had come. Work he must, if only 

ii 


DAVID HARUM 


64 

for work’s sake, and work lie would ; and there was a 
touch of self-reproach in the thought of his father’s 
increasing years and of his lonely life. He might have 
been a help and a companion during those two years of 
his not very fruitful European sojourn, and he would 
lose no time in finding out what there was for him to 
do, and in setting about it. 


CHAPTER VII 


The day seemed very long. He ate his luncheon, hav¬ 
ing first paid a visit to Ann, who gave him an effusive 
welcome. Jeffrey waited, and during the meal they 
had some further talk, and among other things John 
said to him, “Does my father dress for dinner nowa¬ 
days ? ” 

“No, sir,” was the reply. “I don’t know when I’ve 
seen your father in his evening clothes, sir—not for a 
long time, an’ then maybe two or three times the past 
year when he was going out to dinner, but not here, 
sir. Maybe it’ll be different now you’re back again, 
sir.” 

After luncheon John’s luggage arrived, and he super¬ 
intended the unpacking, but that employment was com¬ 
paratively brief. The day dragged with him. Truly 
his home-coming was rather a dreary affair. How 
different had been yesterday, and the day before, and 
all those days before when he had so enjoyed the ship 
life, and most of all the daily hour or more of the com¬ 
panionship which had grown to be of such surpassing 
interest to him, and now seemed so utterly a thing of 
the past! 

Of course, he should see her again. (He put aside a 
mental query if it would be within the proprieties on 
that evening or, at latest, the next.) But, in any case, 
the “episode,” as he had said to her, was done, and it 
had been very pleasant—oh, yes, very dear to him. 
He wondered if she was finding the day as interminable 
as it seemed to him, and if the interval before they saw 


66 


DAVID HARUM 


each other again would seem as long as his impatience 
would make it for him. Finally the restless dullness 
became intolerable. He sallied forth into the weather 
and went to his club, having been on non-resident foot¬ 
ing during his absence, and, finding some men whom he 
knew, spent there the rest of the afternoon. 

His father was at home and in his room when John 
got back. 

“Well, father,” he said, “the prodigal has returned.” 

“He is very welcome,” was the reply, as the elder 
man took both his son’s hands and looked at him affec¬ 
tionately. “You seem very well.” 

“Yes,” said John ; “and how are you, sir?” 

“About as usual, I think,” said Mr. Lenox. 

They looked at each other for a moment in silence. 
John thought that his father seemed thinner than 
formerly, and he had instantly observed that a white 
beard covered the always hitherto smooth-shaven chin, 
but he made no comment. 


“The old place appears very familiar,” he remarked. 
“Nothing is changed or even moved, as I can see, and 
Ann and Jeff are just the same old sixpences as ever.” 

“Yes,” said his father, “two years make less difference 
with old people and their old habits than with young 
ones. You will have changed more than we have, I 
fancy.” 


“Ho we dress for dinner?” asked John, after some 
little more unimportant talk. 

“Yes,” said his father, “in honor of the occasion, if you 
like. I haven’t done it lately,” he added, a little wearily. 


“I haven’t had such a glass of wine since I left home ” 
John remarked, as they sat together after dinner. 


DAVID HARUM 



“No,” said his father, looking thoughtfully at his 
glass; “it’s the old Mouton, and pretty nearly the last 
of it; it’s very old and wants drinking,” he observed, as 
he held his glass up to get the color. “It has gone off 
a bit even in two years.” 

“All right,” said John cheerfully, “we’ll drink it to 
save it, if needs be.” 

The elder man smiled and filled both glasses. 

There had been more or less talk during the meal, 
but nothing of special moment. John sat back in his 


/ 



chair, absently twirling the 
stem of his glass between 
thumb and fingers. Presently 
he said, looking straight before 


him at the table: “I have been thinking a good deal 
of late—more than ever before, in fact—that what¬ 
ever my prospects may be ” (he did not see the momen¬ 
tary contraction of his father’s brow), “I ought to begin 


some sort of a career in earnest. I’m afraid,” he con- 





68 


DAVID HARUM 


tinned, “that I have been rather unmindful, and that I 
might have been of some use to you as well as myself if 
I had stayed at home instead of spending the last two 
years in Europe.” 

“I trust,” said his father, “that they have not been 
entirely without profit.” 

“No,” said John, “perhaps not wholly, but their cash 
value would not be large, I’m afraid.” 

“All value is not to be measured in dollars and cents,” 
remarked Mr. Lenox. “If I could have acquired as 
much German and French as I presume you have, to 
say nothing of other things, I should look back upon 
the time as well spent at almost any cost. At your age 
a year or two more or less—you don’t realize it now, 
but you will if you come to my age—doesn’t count for 
so very much, and you are not too old,” he smiled, “to 
begin at a beginning.” 

“I want to begin,” said John. 

“Yes,” said his father, “I want to have you, and I 
have had the matter a good deal in my mind. Have 
you any idea as to what you wish to do ? ” 

“I thought,” said John, “that the most obvious thing 
would be to go into your office.” 

Mr. Lenox reached over for the cigar-lamp. His cigar 
had gone out, and his hand shook as he applied the 
flame to it. He did not reply for a moment. 

“I understand,” he said at last. “It would seem the 
obvious thing to do, as you say, but,” he clicked his 
teeth together doubtfully, “I don’t see how it can be 
managed at present, and I don’t think it is what 1 
should desire for you in any case. The fact is,” he went 
on, “my business has always been a sort of specialty, 
and, though it is still worth doing perhaps, it is not 


DAVID HARUM 


69 

what it used to be. Conditions and methods have 
changed—and, 1 ” he added, “I am too old to change with 
them.” 

“I am not,” said John. 

“In fact,” resumed his father, ignoring John’s asser¬ 
tion, “as things are going now, I couldn’t make a place 
for you in my office unless I displaced Melig and made 
you my manager, and for many reasons I couldn’t do 
that. I am too dependent on Melig. Of course, if you 
came with me it would be as a partner, but—” 

“No,” said John, “I should be a poor substitute for 
old Melig for a good while, I fancy.” 

“My idea would be,” said Mr. Lenox, “ that you should 
undertake a profession—say the law. It is a fact that 
the great majority of men fail in business, and then 
most of them, for lack of training or special aptitude, 
fall into the ranks of clerks and subordinates. On the 
other hand, a man who has a profession—law, medicine, 
what not—even if he does not attain high rank, has 
something on which he can generally get along, at least 
after a fashion, and he has the standing. That is my 
view of the matter, and though I confess I often wonder 
at it in individual cases, it is my advice to you.” 

“It would take three or four years to put me where I 
could earn anything to speak of,” said John, “even 
providing that I could get any business at the end of 
the time.” 

“Yes,” said his father, “but the time of itself isn’t of 
so much consequence. You would be living at home, 
and would have your allowance—perhaps,” he sug¬ 
gested, “somewhat diminished, seeing that you would 
be here—” 

“I can get on with half of it,” said John confidently. 


yo DAVID HA HUM 

“We will settle that matter afterward/’ said Mr. 
Lenox. 

They sat in silence for some minutes, John staring 
thoughtfully at the table, unconscious of the occasional 
scrutiny of his father’s glance. At last he said, “Well, 
sir, I will do anything that you advise.” 

“Have you anything to urge against it*?” asked Mr. 
Lenox. 

“Not exactly on my own account,” replied John, 
“though I admit that the three years or more seems a 
long time to me, but I have been drawing on you ex¬ 
clusively all my life, except for the little money I 
earned in Rush & Company’s office, and—” 

“You have done so, my dear boy,” said his father 
gently, “with my acquiescence. I may have been 
wrong, but that is a fact. If, in my judgment, the ar¬ 
rangement may be continued for a while longer, and in 
the meantime you are making progress toward a defi¬ 
nite end, I think you need have no misgivings. It 
gratifies me to have you feel as you do, though it is no 
more than I should have expected of you, for you have 
never caused me any serious anxiety or disappoint¬ 
ment, my son.” 

Often in the after time did John thank God for that 
assurance. 

“Thank you, sir,” he said, putting down his hand, 
palm upward, on the table, and his eyes filled as the 
elder man laid his hand in his, and they gave each 
other a lingering pressure. 

Mr. Lenox divided the last of the wine in the bottle 
between the two glasses, and they drank it in silence, 
as if in pledge. 

“I will go in to see Carey & Carey in the morning 


DAVID HARUM 71 

and if they are agreeable you can see them afterward/’ 
said Mr. Lenox. “They are not one of the great firms, 
but they have a large and good practice, and they are 
friends of mine. Shall I do so?” he asked, looking at 
his son. 

“If you will be so kind,” John replied, returning his 
look. And so the matter was concluded. 


12 


CHAPTER VIII 


This history will not concern itself to any extent with 
our friend’s career as a law clerk, though, as he promised 
himself, he took it seriously and laboriously while it 
lasted, notwithstanding that, after two years of being 
his own master, and the rather desultory and altogether 
congenial life he had led, he found it at first even more 
irksome than he had fancied. The novice penetrates but 
slowly the mysteries of the law, and, unless he be of 
unusual aptitude and imagination, the interesting and 
remunerative part seems for a long time very far off. 
But John stuck manfully to the reading, and was dili¬ 
gent in all that was put upon him to do j and after a 
while the days spent in the office and in the work ap¬ 
pointed to him began to pass more quickly. 

He restrained his impulse to call at Sixty-ninth Street 
until what seemed to him a fitting interval had elapsed ; 
one which was longer than it would otherwise have 
been, from an instinct of shyness not habitual to him, 
and a distrustful apprehension that perhaps his advent 
was not of so much moment to the people there as to 
himself. But their greeting was so cordial on every 
hand that Mrs. Carling's remark that they had been 
almost afraid he had forgotten them embarrassed while 
it pleased him, and his explanations were somewhat 
lame. Miss Blake, as usual, came to the rescue, though 
John’s disconcert was not lessened by the suspicion that 
she saw through his inventions. He had conceived a 
great opinion of that young person’s penetration. 

His talk for a while was mostly with Mr. Carling, 


DAVID HARUM 


73 

who was in a pleasant mood, being, like most nervous 
people, at his best in the evening. Mary made an oc¬ 
casional contributory remark, and Mrs. Carling, as was 
her wont, was silent except when appealed to. Finally 
Mr. Carling rose and, putting out his hand, said : “I 
think I will excuse myself, if you will permit me. I 
have had to be down-town to-day, and am rather tired.” 
Mrs. Carling followed him, saying to John as she bade 
him good night: “Do come, Mr. Lenox, whenever you 
feel like it. We are very quiet people, and are almost 
always at home.” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Carling,” responded John, with 
much sincerity. “I shall be most glad to. I am so 
quiet myself as to be practically noiseless.” 

The hall of the Carlings’ house was their favorite sit¬ 
ting-place in the evening. It ran nearly the whole 
depth of the house, and had a wide fireplace at the end. 
The farther right-hand portion was recessed by the stair¬ 
way, which rose from about the middle of its length. 

Miss Blake sat in a low chair, and John took its fellow 
at the other angle of the fireplace, which contained the 
smoldering remnant of a 
wood fire. She had a bit 
of embroidery stretched 
over a circularframe like 
a drumhead. Needle- ' 
work was not a passion 
with her, but it was 
understood in the Carling household that in course 
of time a set of table doilies of elaborate devices in 
colored silks would be forthcoming. It has been de¬ 
plored by some philosopher that custom does not sanc¬ 
tion such little occupations for masculine hands. It 













74 


DAVID HARUM 


would be interesting to speculate how many embarrass¬ 
ing or disastrous consequences might have been averted 
if at a critical point in a negotiation or controversy a 
needle had had to be threaded or a dropped stitch 
taken up before a reply was made, to say nothing of an 
excuse for averting features at times without conles- 
sion of confusion. 

The great and wise Charles Reade tells how his hero, 
who had an island, a treasure ship, and a few other 
trifles of the sort to dispose of, insisted upon Captain 
Fullalove’s throwing away tlie stick he was whittling, 
as giving the captain an unfair advantage. The value 
of the embroidered doily as an article of table napery 
may be open to question, but its value, in an unfinished 
state, as an adjunct to discreet conversation, is beyond 
all dispute. 

“Ought I to say good-night?” asked John, with a 
smile, as he seated himself on the disappearance of Mr. 
and Mrs. Carling. 

“I don’t see any reason,” she replied. “It isn’t late. 
Julius is in one of his periods of retiring early just 
now. By and by he will be sure to take up the idea 
again that his best sleep is after midnight. At present 
he is on the theory that it is before twelve o’clock.” 

“How has he been since your return?” John asked. 

“Better in some ways, I think,” she replied. “He 
seems to enjoy the home life in contrast with the travel¬ 
ing about and living in hotels ; and then, in a moderate 
way, he is obliged to give some attention to business 
matters, and to come in contact with men and affairs 
generally.” 

“And you?” said John, 
back ? ” 


“You find it pleasant to be 


DAVID HA HUM 


75 

“Yes,” she said, “I do. As my sister said, we are 
quiet people. She goes out so little that it is almost 
not at all, and when I go it has nearly always to be with 
some one else. And then, you know that while Alice 
and I are originally New-Yorkers, we have only been 
back here for two or three years. Most of the people, 
really, to whose houses we go are those who knew my 
father. But,” she added, “it is a comfort not to be 
carrying about a traveling bag in one hand and a 
weight of responsibility in the other.” 

“I should think,” said John, laughing, “that your 
maid might have taken the bag, even if she couldn’t 
carry your responsibilities.” 

“No,” she said, joining in his laugh, “that particular 
bag was too precious, and Eliza was one of my most 
serious responsibilities. She had to be looked after like 
the luggage, and I used to wish at times that she could 
be labeled and go in the van. How has it been with 
you since your return ? and,” as she separated a needle¬ 
ful of silk from what seemed an inextricable tangle, “if 
I may ask, what have you been doing ? I was recalling,” 
she added, putting the silk into the needle, “some things 
you said to me on the Altruria. Do you remember?” 

“Perfectly,” said John. “I think I remember every 
word said on both sides, and I have thought very often 
of some things you said to me. In fact, they had more 
influence upon my mind than you imagined.” 

She turned her work so that the light would fall a 
little more directly upon it. 

“Really?” she asked. “In what way?” 

“You put in a drop or two that crystallized the whole 
solution,” he answered. 

She looked up at him inquiringly. 


DAVID HA RUM 


1 () 

“Yes,” lie said, “I always knew that J should have to 
stop drifting sometime, but there never seemed to be 
any particular time. Some things you said to me set 
the time. I am under ‘full steam ahead 7 at present. 
Behold in me , 77 he exclaimed, touching his breast, “the 
future chief of the Supreme Court of the United States, 
of whom you shall say sometime in the next brief in¬ 
terval of forty years or so, ‘I knew him as a young man, 
and one for whom no one would have predicted such 
eminence ! 7 and perhaps you will add, ‘It was largely 
owing to me . 7 77 

She looked at him with an expression in which amuse¬ 
ment and curiosity were blended. 

“I congratulate you , 77 she said, laughing, “upon the 
career in which it appears I had the honor to start you. 
Am I being told that you have taken up the law ? 77 

“Not quite the whole of it as yet , 77 he said; “but 
when I am not doing errands for the office I am to some 
extent taken up with it / 7 And then he told her of his 
talk with his father and what had followed. She over¬ 
came a refractory kink in her silk before speaking. 

“It takes a long time, doesn’t it? and do you like it ? 77 
she asked. 

“Well , 77 said John, laughing a little, “a weaker word 
than ‘fascinating 7 would describe the pursuit, but I 
hope with diligence to reach some of the interesting 
features in the course of ten or twelve years . 77 

“It is delightful , 77 she remarked, scrutinizing the 
pattern of her work, “to encounter such enthusiasm . 77 

“Isn’t it ? 77 said John, not in the least wounded by her 
sarcasm. 

“Very much so , 77 she replied; “but I have always 
understood that it is a mistake to be loo sanguine . 77 


DAVID HARUM 


// 

“Perhaps I'd better make it fifteen years, then,’' he 
said, laughing. “I should have a choice of professions 
by that time, at any rate. You know the proverb that 
‘At forty every man is either a fool or a physician.’” 

She looked at him with a smile. 

“Yes,” he said, “I realize the alternative.” 

She laughed a little, but did not reply. 

“Seriously,” he continued, “I know that in every¬ 
thing worth accomplishing there is a lot of drudgery to 
be gone through with at the first, and perhaps it seems 
the more irksome to me because I have been so long 
idly my own master. However,” he added, “I shall get 
down to it, or up to it, after a while, I dare say. That 
is my intention, at any rate.” 

“I don’t think I have ever wished that I were a man,” 
she said after a moment, “but I often find myself envy¬ 
ing a man’s opportunities.” 

“Do not women have opportunities, too?” he said. 
“Certainly they have greatly to do with the determina¬ 
tion of affairs.” 

“Oh, yes,” she replied, “it is the usual answer that 
woman’s part is to influence somebody. As for her 
own life, it is largely made for her. She has, for the 
most part, to take what comes to her by the will of 
others.” 

“And yet,” said John, “I fancy that there has seldom 
been a great career in which some woman’s help or in¬ 
fluence was not a factor.” 

“Even granting that,” she replied, “the career was 
the man’s, after all, and the fame and visible reward. 
A man will sometimes say, ‘I owe all my success to my 
wife, or my mother, or sister,’ but he never really be¬ 
lieves it, nor, in fact, does any one else. It is his sue- 


78 


DAVID HARUM 


cess, after all, and the influence of the woman is but a 
circumstance, real and powerful though it may be. I 
am not sure,” she added, “that woman’s influence, so 
called, isn’t rather an overrated thing. Women like to 
feel that they have it, and men, in matters which they 
hold lightly, flatter them by yielding, but I am doubtful 
if a man ever arrives at or abandons a settled course or 
conviction through the influence of a woman, however 
exerted.” 

“I think you are wrong,” said John, “and I feel sure 
of so much as this : that a man might often be or do 
for a woman’s sake that which he would not for his 
own.” 

“That is quite another thing,” she said. “There is in 
it no question of influence ; it is one of impulse and 
motive.” 

“I have told you to-night,” said John, “that what 
you said to me had influenced me greatly.” 

“Pardon me,” she replied, “you employed a figure 
which exactly defined your condition. You said I sup¬ 
plied the drop which caused the solution to crystallize 
—that is, to elaborate your illustration, that it was al¬ 
ready at the point of saturation with your own convic¬ 
tions and intentions.” 

“I said also,” he urged, “that you had set the time 
for me. Is the idea unpleasant to you? ” lie asked after 
a moment, while he watched her face. 

She did not at once reply, but presently she turned 
to him with slightly heightened color and said, ignoring 
his question : 

“Would you rather think that you had done what 
you thought right because you so thought, 01* because 
some one else wished to have you? Or, 1 should say 


DAVID HARUM 


79 


would you rather think that the right suggestion was 
another’s than your own!” 

He laughed a little, and said evasively : “You ought 
to be a lawyer, Miss Blake. I should hate to have you 
cross-examine me unless I were very sure of my evi¬ 
dence.” 

She gave a little shrug of her shoulders in reply as 
she turned and resumed her embroidery. They talked 
for a while longer, but of other things, the discussion of 
woman’s influence having been dropped by mutual 
consent. 

After John’s departure she suspended operations on 
the doily, and sat for a while gazing reflectively into 
the fire. She was a person as frank with herself as with 
others, and with as little vanity as was compatible with 
being human ; which is to say that, though she was not 
without it, it was of the sort which could be gratified 
but not flattered—in fact, the sort which flattery 
wounds rather than ifleases. But despite her apparent 
skepticism she had not been displeased by John’s 
assertion that she had influenced him in his 
course. 81ie had expressed herself truly, 
believing that he would have done as he 
had without her intervention; but she 
thought that he was sincere, and it was 
pleasant to her to have him think as lie did. 

Considering the surroundings and con¬ 
ditions under which she had lived, she had 
had her share of the acquaintance and at¬ 
tentions of agreeable men, but none of them 
had ever got with her beyond the stage of 
mere friendliness. There had neverbeen one whose com¬ 
ing she had particularly looked forward to, or whose 
J3 



8o 


DAVID HARUM 


going she had deplored. She had thought of marriage as 
something she might come to, but she had promised her¬ 
self that it should be on such conditions as were, she was 
aware, quite improbable of ever being fulfilled. She 
would not care for a man because he was clever and dis¬ 
tinguished, but she felt that he must be those things, 
and have, besides, those qualities of character and per¬ 
son which should attract her. She had known a good 
many men who were clever and to some extent dis¬ 
tinguished, but none who had attracted her personally. 
John Lenox did not strike her as being particularly 
clever, ami he certainly was not distinguished, nor, 
she thought, ever very likely to be ; but she had felt a 
pleasure in being with him which she had never experi¬ 
enced in the society of any other man, and underneath 
some boyish ways she divined a strength and steadfast¬ 
ness which could be relied upon at need. And she 
admitted to herself that during the ten days since her 
return, though she had unsparingly snubbed her sister’s 
wonderings why he did not call, she had speculated a 
good deal upon the subject herself, with a sort of re¬ 
sentful feeling against both herself and him that she 
should care. 

Her face Hushed as she recalled the momentary pres¬ 
sure of his hand upon hers on that last night on deck. 
She rang for the servant, and went up to her room. 



CHAPTER IX 


It is not the purpose of this narrative to dwell minutely 
upon the events of the next few months. Truth to say, 
they were devoid of incidents of sufficient moment in 
themselves to warrant chronicle. AVhat they led up to 
was memorable enough. 

As time went on John found himself on terms of grow¬ 
ing intimacy with the Carling household, and eventually 
it came about that if there passed a day when their door 
did not open to him it was dies non. 

Mr. Carling was ostensibly more responsible than the 
ladies for the frequency of our friend’s visits, and grew 
to look forward to them. In fact, he seemed to regard 
them as paid primarily to himself, and ignored an occa¬ 
sional suggestion on his wife’s part that it might not lx* 
wholly the pleasure of a chat and a game at cards with 
him that brought the young man so often to the house. 
And when once she ventured to concern him with some 
stirrings of her mind on the subject, he rather testily 
(for him) pooh-poohed her misgivings, remarking that 
Mary was her own mistress, and, as far as he had ever 
seen, remarkably well qualified to regulate her own 
affairs. Had she ever seen anything to lead her to 
suppose that there was any particular sentiment exist¬ 
ing between Lenox and her sister ? 

“Xo,” said Mrs. Carling, “perhaps not exactly, but 
you know how those things go, and he always stays 
after we come up when she is at home." To which her 
husband vouchsafed no reply, but began a protracted 


82 


DAVID HARUM 


wavering as to the advisability of leaving the steam on 
or turning it off for the night, which was a cold one— 
a dilemma which, involving his personal welfare or 
comfort at the moment, permitted no consideration of 
other matters to share his mind. 

Mrs. Carling had not spoken to her sister upon the 
subject. She thought that that young woman, if she 

egulate 
eld the 
rongly. 








































markably well qualifie 
her own affairs/’ at h 
opinion that she was, \ 






































































/ ' ^ 


The two were devotedly fond of each other, but Mrs. 
Carling was the elder by twenty years, and in her love 
was an element of maternal solicitude to which her 
sister, while giving love for love in fullest measure, did 
not fully respond. The elder would have liked to share 
every thought j but she was neither so strong nor so 
clever as the girl to whom she had been almost as a 
mother, and who, though perfectly truthful and frank 


ng sa 


:d to r 
sast h 
r ery st 



%// 

















DAVID HARIJM 


83 


& , 




A 






when she was minded to express herself, gave, as a rule, 
little satisfaction to attempts to explore her mind, and 
on some subjects was capable of meeting such attempts 
with impatience, not to say resentment 
—a fact of which her sister was quite 
aware. But as time went on, and the 
frequency of John’s visits and atten¬ 
tions grew into a settled habit, Mrs. Car¬ 
ling’s uneasiness, with which perhaps 
was mingled a bit of curiosity, got the 
better of her reserve, and she deter¬ 
mined to get what satisfaction could be 
obtained for it. 

They were sitting in Mrs. Carling’s 
room, which was over the drawing-room 
in the front of the house. A fire of 
cannel blazed in the grate. 

A furious storm was whirling outside. 

Mrs. Carling was occupied with some 
sort of needlework, and her sister, with 
a writing-pad on her lap, was composing 
a letter to a friend with whom she carried 
on a desultory and rather one-sided cor¬ 
respondence. Presently she yawned 
slightly, and, putting down her pad, 
went over to the window and looked out. 

“ What a day ! ” she exclaimed. “It 
seems to get worse and worse. Positively you can’t 
see across the street. It’s like a Western blizzard.” 

“It is, really,” said Mrs. Carling; and then, moved 
by the current of thought which had been passing in 
her mind of late, “I fancy we shall spend the evening 
by ourselves to-night.” 


£ 


W/ 


7 m 


DAVID HA RUM 


84 

“That would not be so unusual as to be extraordinary, 
would it?” said Mary. 

“Wouldn’t it? ” suggested Mrs. Carling, in a tone that 
was meant to be slightly quizzical. 

“We are by ourselves most evenings, are we not?” 
responded her sister, without turning around. “YV hy 
do you particularize to-night?” 

“I was thinking,” answered Mrs. Carling, bending a 
little closer over her work, “that even Mr. Lenox would 
hardly venture out in such a storm unless it were abso¬ 
lutely necessary.” 

“Oh, yes, to be sure, Mr. Lenox 5 very likely not,” 
was Miss Blake’s comment, in a tone of indifferent 
recollection. 

“He comes here very often, almost every night, in 
fact,” remarked Mrs. Carling, looking up sideways at 
her sister’s back. 

“Now that you mention it,” said Mary dryly, “I have 
noticed something of the sort myself.” 

“Do you think he ought to?” asked her sister, after 
a moment of silence. 

“Why not?” said the girl, turning to her questioner 
for the first time. “And why should I think he should 
or should not ? Doesn’t he come to see Julius, and on 
Julius’s invitation? I have never asked him—but 
once,” she said, flushing a little as she recalled the 
occasion and the wording of the invitation. 

“Do you think,” returned Mrs. Carling, “that his 
visits are wholly on Julius’s account, and that he 
would come so often if there were no other induce¬ 
ment? You know,” she continued, pressing her point 
timidly but persistently, “he always stays after we 
go upstairs if you are at home, and 1 have noticed that 


DAVID HARUM 85 

when you are out he always goes before our time for 
retiring.” 

“I should say,” was the rojoinder, “that that was 
very much the proper thing. Whether or not he comes 
here too often is not for me to say—I have no opinion 
on the subject. But, to do him justice, he is about the 
last man to wait for a tacit dismissal, or to cause you 
and Julius to depart from what he knows to be your 
regular habit out of politeness to him. He is a person 
of too much delicacy and good breeding to stay when 
—if—that is to say—” 

She turned again to the window without completing 
her sentence, and, though Mrs. Carling thought she could 
complete it for her, she wisely forbore. After a moment 
of silence, Mary said in a voice devoid of any traces of 
confusion : 

“You asked me if I thought Mr. Lenox would come 
so often if there were no object in his coming except 
to see Julius. I can only say that if Julius were out 
of the question I think he would come here but sel¬ 
dom ; but,” she added, as she left the window and re- 
sumed her seat, “I do not quite see the object of this 
discussion, and, indeed, I am not quite sure what we 
are discussing. Do you object,” she asked, looking 
curiously at her sister and smiling slightly, “to Mr. 
Lenox’s coming here as he does, and if so, why?” 
This was apparently more direct than Mrs. Carling 
was quite prepared for. “And if you do," Mary 
proceeded, “what is to be done about it? Am I to 
make him understand that it is not considered the 
proper thing? or will you? or shall we leave it to 
Julius? ” 

Mrs. Carling looked up into her sister’s face, in which 


86 


DAVID HARUM 


was a smile of amused penetration, and looked down 
again in visible embarrassment. 

The young woman laughed as she shook her finger at 
her. 

“Oh, you transparent goose ! ” she cried. “What did 
he say? ” 

“What did who say?” was the evasive response. 

“Julius,” said Mary, putting her finger under her 
sister’s chin and raising her face. “Tell me, now. 
You’ve been talking with him, and I insist upon know¬ 
ing the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the 
truth. So there ! ” 

“Well,” she admitted hesitatingly, “I said to him 
something like what I have to you—that it seemed to 
me that Mr. Lenox came very often, and that I did not 
believe it was all on his account, and that he” (won’t 
somebody please invent another pronoun?) “always 
stayed when you were at home—” 

“And,” broke in her sister, “that you were afraid 
my young affections were being engaged, and that, after- 
all, we didn’t know much if anything about the young 
man, or, perhaps, that he was forming a hopeless attach¬ 
ment, and so on.” 

“No,” said Mrs. Carling, “1 didn’t say that exactly. 
I-” 

“Didn’t you, really?” said Mary teasingly. “One 
ought to be explicit in such cases, don’t you think? 
Well, what did Julius sav? Was he very much con- 
cerned ? ” 

Mrs. Carling’s face colored faintly under her sister’s 
raillery, and she gave a little embarrassed laugh. 

“Come, now,” said the girl relentlessly, “what did he 


DAVID HARUM 


»7 


“Well,” answered Mrs. Carling, “I must admit that 
he said ‘Pooh !’ for one thing, and that you were your 
own mistress, and, so far as he had seen, you were very 
well qualified to manage your own affairs.” 

Her sister clapped her hands. “Such discrimination 
have I not seen,” she exclaimed, “no, not in Israel! 
What else did he say ? ” she demanded, with a dramatic 
gesture. “Let us know the worst.” 

Mrs. Carling laughed a little. “I don’t remember,” 
she admitted, “that he said anything more on the sub¬ 
ject. He got into some perplexity about whether the 
steam should be off or on, and after that question was 
settled we went to bed.” 

Mary laughed outright. “So Julius doesn’t think I 
need watching,” she said. 

“Mary,” protested her sister in a hurt tone, “you 
don’t think I ever did or could watch you? I don’t 
want to pry into your secrets, dear,” and she looked up 
with tears in her eyes. 

The girl dropped on her knees beside her sister and 
put her arms about her neck. “You precious old 
lamb!” she cried, “I know you don’t. You couldn’t 
pry into anybody’s secrets if you tried. You couldn’t 
even try. But I haven’t any, dear, and I’ll tell you 
every one of them, and, rather than see a tear in your 
dear eyes, I would tell John Lenox that I never wanted 
to see him again j and I don’t know what you have been 
thinking, but I haven’t thought so at all ” (which last 
assertion made even Mrs. Carling laugh), “and I know 
that I have been teasing and horrid, and if you won’t 
put me in the closet I will be good and answer every 
question like a nice little girl.” Whereupon she gave 
her sister a kiss and resumed her seat with an air of 


14 


88 


DAVID HARUM 


abject penitence which lasted for a minute. Then she 
laughed again, though there was a watery gleam in her 
own eyes. 

Mrs. Carling gave her a look of great love and ad¬ 
miration. “I ought not to have brought up the sub¬ 
ject,” she said, “knowing as I do how you feel about 
such discussions, but I love you so much that sometimes 
I can’t help—” 

“Alice,” exclaimed the girl, “please have the kind¬ 
ness to call me a selfish p—i—g. It will relieve my 
feelings.” 

“But I do not think you are,” said Mrs. Carling 
literally. 

“But I am at times,” declared Mary, “and you de¬ 
serve not only to have, but to be shown, all the love 
and confidence that lean give you. It’s only this : that 
sometimes your solicitude makes you imagine things 
that do not exist, and you think I am withholding my 
confidence; and then, again, I am enough like other 
people that I don’t always know exactly what I do 
think. Now, about this matter—” 

“Don’t say a word about it, dear,” her sister inter¬ 
rupted, “unless you would rather than not.” 

“I wish to,” said Mary. “Of course I am not ob¬ 
livious of the fact that Mr. Lenox comes here very 
often, nor that he seems to like to stay and talk with me, 
because, don’t you know, if he didn’t he could go when 
you do ; and I don’t mind admitting that, as a general 
thing, I like to have him stay 5 but, as I said to you, if 
it weren’t for Julius he would not come here very often.” 

“Don’t you think,” said Mrs. Carling, now on an 
assured footing, “that if it were not for you he would 
not come so often?” 


DAVID HA HUM 


89 

Perhaps Mary overestimated the attraction which 
her brother-in-law had for Mr. Lenox, and she smiled 
slightly as she thought that it was quite possible. 
“I suppose/’ she went on, with a little shrug of 
the shoulders, “that the 
proceeding is not strictly 
conventional, and that 
the absolutely correct 
thing would be for him 
to say good-niglit when 
you and Julius do, and 
that there are those who 
would regard my per¬ 
mitting a young man in 
no way related to me 
to see me very often in 
the evening without the 
protection of a duenna 
as a very unbecoming 
thing.” 

“Inever have had such 
a thought about it,” 
declared Mrs. Carling. 

“I never for a moment supposed you had, dear,” said 
Mary, “nor have I. We are rather unconventional 
people, making very few claims upon society, and upon 
whom society makes very few.” 

“I am rather sorry for that on your account,” said 
her sister. 

“You needn’t be,” was the rejoinder. “I have 110 
yearnings in that direction which are not satisfied with 
what I have.” She sat for a minute or two with her 
hands clasped upon her knee, gazing reflectively into 







9° 


DAVID HA RUM 


the fire, which, in the growing darkness of the winter 
afternoon, afforded almost the only light in the room. 
Presently she became conscious that her sister was re¬ 
garding her with an air of expectation, and resumed : 
“Leaving the question of the conventions out of the 
discussion as settled,” she said, “there is nothing, Alice, 
that you need have any concern about, either on Mr. 
Lenox’s account or mine.” 

“You like him, don’t you?” asked Mrs. Carling. 

“Yes,” said Mary frankly, “I like him very much. 
We have enough in common to be rather sympa¬ 
thetic, and we differ enough not to be dull, and so 
we get on very well. I never had a brother,” she con¬ 
tinued, after a momentary pause, “but I feel toward 
him as I fancy I should feel toward a brother of about 
my own age, though he is five or six years older than I 
am.” 

“You don’t think, then,” said Mrs. Carling timidly, 
“that you are getting to care for him at all!” 

“In the sense that you use the word,” was the reply, 
“not the least in the world. If there were to come a 
time when I really believed I should never see him 
again, I should be sorry ; but if at any time it were a 
question of six months or a year, I do not think my 
equanimity would be particularly disturbed.” 

“And how about him?” suggested Mrs. Carling. 

There was no reply. 

“Don’t you think he may care for you, or be getting 
to?” 

Mary frowned slightly, half closing her eyes and stir¬ 
ring a little uneasily in her chair. 

“He hasn’t said anything to me on the subject,” she 
replied evasively. 


DAVID HARUM 


9 l 


“Would that be necessary?” asked her sister. 

“Perhaps not,” was the reply, “if the fact were very 
obvious.” 

“Isn’t it?” persisted Mrs. Carling, with unusual 
tenacity. 

“Well,” said the girl, “to be quite frank with you, I 
have thought once or twice that he entertained some 
such idea—that is—no, I don’t mean to put it just that 
way. I mean that once or twice something has occurred 
to give me that idea. That isn’t very coherent, is it ? 
But even if it be so,” she went on after a moment, 
with a wave of her hands, “what of it? What does it 
signify? And if it does signify, what can I do about 
it?” 

“You have thought about it, then?” said her sister. 

“As much as I have told you,” she answered. “I am 
not a very sentimental person, I think, and not very 
much on the lookout for such things, but I know there 
is such a thing as a man’s taking a fancy to a young 
woman under circumstances which bring them often 
together, and I have been led to believe that it isn’t 
necessarily fatal to the man even if nothing comes of 
it. But be that as it may,” she said, with a shrug of her 
shoulders, “what can I do about it? I can’t say to Mr 
Lenox, ( I think you ought not to come here so much,’ 
unless I give a reason for it, and I think we have come 
to the conclusion that there is no reason except the 
danger—to put it in so many words—of his falling 
in love with me. I couldn’t quite say that to him, 
could I ? ” 

“No, I suppose not,” acquiesced Mrs. Carling faintly. 

“No, I should say not ,” remarked the girl. “If he 
were to say anything to me in the way of—declaration 


9 2 


DAVID HARUM 


is the word, isn’t it?—it would be another matter. 
But there is no danger of that.” 

“Why not, if he is fond of you?” asked her sister. 

“Because,” said Mary, with an emphatic nod, “I won’t 
let him,” which assertion was rather weakened by her 
adding, “and he wouldn’t, if I would.” 

“I don’t understand,” said her sister. 

“Well,” said Mary, “I don’t pretend to know all that 
goes on in his mind ; but allowing, or rather conjectur¬ 
ing, that he does care for me in the way you mean, I 
haven’t the least fear of his telling me so, and one of 
the reasons is this—that he is wholly dependent upon 
his father, with no other prospect for years to come.” 

“I had the idea somehow,” said Mrs. Carling, “that 
his father was very well-to-do. The young man gives 
one the impression of a person who has always had 
everything that he wanted.” 

“I think that is so,” said Mary, “but he told me one 
day, coming over on the steamer, that he knew nothing 
whatever of his own prospects or his father’s affairs. I 
don’t remember—at least, it doesn’t matter—how he 
came to say as much, but he did, and afterward gave 
me a whimsical catalogue of his acquirements and 
accomplishments, remarking, I remember, that there 
was ‘not a dollar in the whole list’ $ and lately, though 
you must not fancy that he discusses his own affairs 
with me, he has now and then said something to make 
me guess that he was somewhat troubled about them.” 

“Is he doing anything?” asked Mrs. Carling. 

“He told me the first evening he called here,” said 
Mary, “that he was studying law, at his father’s sug¬ 
gestion ; but I don’t remember the name of the firm in 
whose office he is,” 


DAVID HARUM 


93 


“.Why doesn’t he ask his father about his prospects? ” 
said Mrs. Carling. 

Mary laughed. “You seem to be so much more in¬ 
terested in the matter than I am,” she said, “why don’t 
you ask him yourself?” 

To which unjustifiable rejoinder her sister made no 
reply. “I don’t see why he shouldn’t,” she remarked. 

“I think I understand,” said Mary. “I fancy from 
what he has told me that his father is a singularly reti¬ 
cent man, but one in whom his son has always had the 
most implicit confidence. I imagine, too, that, until 
recently at any rate, he has taken it for granted that 
his father was wealthy. He has not confided any mis¬ 
givings to me, but if he has any he is just the sort of 
person not to ask and certainly not to press a question 
with his father.” 

“It would seem like carrying delicacy almost too far,” 
remarked Mrs. Carling. 

“Perhaps it would,” said her sister, “but I think I 
can understand and sympathize with it,” 

Mrs. Carling broke the silence which followed for a 
moment or two as if she were thinking aloud. “You 
have plenty of money,” she said, and colored at her 
inadvertence. Her sister looked at her for an instant 
with a humorous smile, and then, as she rose and 
touched the bell button, said, “That’s another reason.” 


CHAPTER X 


I think it should hardly be imputed to John as a fault 
or a shortcoming that he did not for a long time realize 
his father’s failing powers. True, as has been stated, 
he had noted some changes in appearance on his return, 
but they were not great enough to be startling, and, 
though he thought at times that his father’s manner 
was more subdued than he had ever known it to be, 
nothing really occurred to arouse his suspicion or 
anxiety. After a few days the two men appeared to 
drop into their accustomed relation and routine, meet¬ 
ing in the morning and at dinner; but as John picked 
up the threads of his acquaintance he usually went out 
after dinner, and even when he did not his father went 
early to his own apartment. 

From John’s childhood he had been much of the time 
away from home, and there had never, partly from that 
circumstance and partly from the older man’s natural 
and habitual reserve, been very much intimacy between 
them. The father did not give his own confidence, and, 
while always kind and sympathetic when appealed to, 
did not ask his son’s; and, loving his father well and 
loyally, and trusting him implicitly, it did not occur to 
John to feel that there was anything wanting in the 
relation. Jt was as it had always been. He was accus¬ 
tomed to accept what his father did or said without 
question, and, as is very often the case, had always re¬ 
garded him as an old man. He had never felt that 
they could be in the same equation. In truth, save for 
their mutual affection, they had little in common ; and 


DAVID HARUM 


95 


if, as may have been the case, his father had any crav¬ 
ings for a closer and more intimate relation, he made 
no sign, acquiescing in his son’s actions as the son did in 
his, without question or suggestion. They did not know 



each other. And such cases are not rare, more’s the 
pity. 

But as time went on even John’s unwatchful eye 
could not fail to notice that all was not well with his 
father. Haggard lines were multiplying in the quiet 
face, and the silence at the dinner-table was often un- 
15 































DAVID HARUM 


96 

broken except by John’s unfruitful efforts to keep some 
sort of a conversation in motion. More and more fre¬ 
quently it occurred that his father would retire to his 
own room immediately after dinner was over, and the 
food on his plate would be almost untouched, while he 
took more wine than had ever been his habit. John, 
retiring late, would often hear him stirring uneasily in 
his room, and it would be plain in the morning that he 
had spent a wakeful, if not a sleepless, night. Once or 
twice on such a morning John had suggested to his 
father that he should not go down to the office, and the 
suggestion had been met with so irritable a negative as 
to excite his wonder. 

It was a day in the latter part of March. The winter 
had been unusually severe, and lingered into spring 
with a heart-sickening tenacity, occasional hints of 
clemency and promise being followed by recurrences 
which were as irritating as a personal affront. 

John had held to his work in the office, if not with 
positive enthusiasm, at least with industry, and thought 
that he had made some progress. O11 the day in ques¬ 
tion the managing clerk commented briefly but favor¬ 
ably on something of his which was satisfactory, and, 
such experiences being rare, he was conscious of a feel¬ 
ing ol mild elation. He was also cherishing theantici- 



unnecessary to recount, he had not been for a week. 
At dinner that night his father seemed more inclined 
than lor a long time to keep up a conversation which, 
though of no special import, was cheerful in comparison 
with the silence which had grown to be almost the rule, 
and the two men sat for a while over the coffee and 


DAVID HARUM 


97 


cigars. Presently, however, the elder rose from the 
table, saying pleasantly, “I suppose you are going out 
to-night.” 

“Not if you’d like me to stay in,” was the reply. “I 
have no definite engagement.” 

“Oh, no,” said Mr. Lenox, “not at: all, not at all.” And 
as he passed his son on the way out of the room he put 
out his hand, and, taking John’s, said “Good-night.” 

As John stood for a moment rather taken aback, he 
heard his father mount the stairs to his room. He was 
puzzled by the unexpected and unusual occurrence, but 
finally concluded that his father, realizing how taciturn 
they had become of late, wished to resume their former 
status, and this view was confirmed to his mind by the 
fact that they had been more companionable than usual 
that evening, albeit nothing of any special significance 
had been said. 

As has been stated, a longer interval than usual had 
elapsed since John’s last visit to Sixty-ninth Street, a 
fact which had been commented 
on by Mr. Carling, but not men¬ 


tioned between the ladies. When 
he found himself at that hos¬ 
pitable house on that evening, 
he was greeted by Miss Blake 
alone. 



“Julius did not come down to¬ 
night, and my sister is with him,” 
she said, “so you will have to put- 


up with my society—unless you’d 

like me to send up for Alice. Julius is strictly en 

retraite , I should say.” 

“Don’t disturb her, I beg,” protested John, laughing, 





DAVID HARIJM 


98 

and wondering a bit at the touch of coquetry in her 
speech, something unprecedented in his experience of 
her, “if you are willing to put up with my society. I 
hope Mr. Carling is not ill?” 

They seated themselves as she replied : “No, nothing 
serious, I should say. A bit of a cold, I fancy ; and for 
a fortnight he has been more nervous than usual. The 

changes in the weather have been so 
great and so abrupt that they have worn 
upon his nerves. He is getting very un¬ 
easy again. Now, after spending the 
winter, and when spring is almost at 
hand, I believe that if he could make 
up his mind where to go he would be 
for setting off to-morrow.” 

“Really?” said John, in a tone of 
dismay. 

“Quite so,” she replied, with a nod. 
“But,” he objected, “it seems too late 
or too early. Spring may drop in upon us any day. 
Isn’t this something very recent?” 

“It has been developing for a week or ten days,” she 
answered, “and symptoms have indicated a crisis for 
some time. In fact,” she added, with a little vexed 
laugh, “we have talked of nothing for a week but the 
advantages and disadvantages of Florida, California, 
North Carolina, South Carolina, and Virginia at large, 
besides St. Augustine, Monterey, Santa Barbara, Aiken, 
Asheville, Hot Springs, Old Point Comfort, Bermuda, 
and I don’t know how many other places, not for¬ 
getting Atlantic City and Lakewood ; and only not 
Barbados and the Sandwich Islands because nobody 
happened to think of them. Julius,” remarked Miss 





DAVID HARUM 


99 


Blake, “would have given a forenoon to the discussion 
of those two places as readily as to any of the others.” 

“Can’t you talk him along into warm weather? ” sug¬ 
gested John, with rather a mirthless laugh. “Don’t you 
think that if the weather were to change for good, as 
it’s likely to do almost any time now, he might put off 
going till the usual summer flitting?” 

“The change in his mind will have to come pretty 
soon if I am to retain my mental faculties,” she de¬ 
clared. “He might possibly, but I am afraid not,” she 
said, shaking her head. “He has the idea fixed in his 
mind, and considerations of the weather here, while 
they got him started, are not now so much the question. 
He has the moving fever, and I am afraid it will have 
to run its course. I think,” she said, after a moment, 
“that if I were to formulate a spe¬ 
cial anathema, it would be, ‘May 
traveling seize you ! ’ ” 

“Or restlessness,” suggested John. 

“Yes,” she said, “that’s more accurate, 
perhaps, but it doesn’t sound quite so 
smart. Julius is in that state of mind when 
the only jdace that seems desirable is some¬ 
where else.” 

“Of course you will have to go,” said 
John mournfully. 

“Oh, yes,” she replied, with an air of 
compulsory resignation. “I shall not only 
have to go, of course, but I shall probably 
have to decide where, in order to save my mind. But 
it will certainly be somewhere, so I might as well be 
packing my trunks.” 

“And you will be away indefinitely, I suppose?” 



D 



1 > 







lOO 


DAVID HARUM 


“Yes, I imagine so.” 

“Dear me !'” John ejaculated in a dismal tone. 

They were sitting as described on a former occasion, 
and the young woman was engaged upon the second 
(perhaps the third, or even the fourth) of the set of 
doilies to which she had committed herself. She took 
some stitches with a composed air, without responding 
to her companion’s exclamation. 

“I’m awfully sorry,” he said presently, leaning for¬ 
ward with his elbows on his knees, his hands hanging in 
an attitude of unmistakable dejection, and staring 
fixedly into the file. 

“1 am very sorry myself,” she said, bending her head 
a little closer over her work. “I think I like being in 
New York in the spring better than at any other 
time 5 and I don’t at all fancy the idea of living 
in my trunks again for an indefinite period.” 

“I shall miss you horribly,” lie said, turning 
his face toward her. 

Her eyes opened with a lift of the brows, 
but whether the surprise so indicated was 
quite genuine is a matter for conjecture. 

“Yes,” he declared desperately, “I shall, indeed.” 

“I should fancy you must have plenty of other 
friends,” she said, flushing a little, “and I have won¬ 
dered sometimes whether Julius’s demands upon you 
were not more confident than warrantable, and whether 
you wouldn’t often rather have gone elsewhere than to 
come here to play cards with him.” She actually said 
this as if she meant it. 

“Do you suppose—” he exclaimed, and checked him¬ 
self. “No,” he said, “I have come because—well, I’ve 
been only too glad to come, and—I suppose it has got 



DAVID HA RUM 


101 


to be a habit/’ he added, rather lamely. “ You see, I’ve 
never known any people in the way I have known yon. 
It has seemed to me more like home life than anything 
I’ve ever known. There has never been any one but 
my father and U and you can have no idea what it has 
been to me to be allowed to come here as I have, and 
—oh, you must know—” He hesitated, and instantly 
she advanced her point. 

Her face was rather white, and the hand which lay 
upon the work in her lap trembled a little, while she 
clasjjed the arm of the chair with the other 5 but she 
broke in upon his hesitation with an even voice : 

“It has been very pleasant for us all, I’m sure,” she 
said, “and, frankly, I’m sorry that it must be inter¬ 
rupted for a while, but that is about all there is of it, 
isn’t it? We shall probably be back not later than 
October, I should say, and then you can renew your 
contests with Julius and your controversies with me.” 

Her tone and what she said recalled to him their last 
night on board the ship, but there was no relenting on 
this occasion. He realized that for a moment he had 
been on the verge of telling the girl that he loved her, 
and he realized, too, that she had divined his impulse 
and prevented the disclosure ; but he registered a vow 
that he would know before he saw her again whether 
he might consistently tell her his love, and win or lose 
upon the touch. 

Miss Blake made several inaccurate efforts to intro¬ 
duce her needle at the exact point desired, and when 
that endeavor was accomplished broke the silence by 
saying, “Speaking of 1 October,’ have you read the 
novel? I think it is charming.” 

“Yes,” said John, with his vow in his mind, but not 


102 


DAVID HA HUM 


sorry for the diversion, “and I enjoyed it very much. 
I thought it was immensely clever, but I confess that I 
didn’t quite sympathize with the love affairs of a hero 
who was past forty, and I must also confess that I 
thought the girl was, well—to put it in plain English 
—a fool.” 

Mary laughed, with a little quaver in her voice. “Do 
you know,” she said, “that sometimes it seems to me 
that I am older than you are ? ” 

“I know you’re awfully wise,” said John, with a 
laugh, and from that their talk drifted off into the safer 
channels of their usual intercourse until he rose to say 
good-night. 

“Of course, we shall see you again before we go,” she 
said as she gave him her hand. 

“Oh,” he declared, “I intend regularly to haunt the 
place.” 



CHAPTER XI 


When John came down the next morning his father, 
who was, as a rule, the most punctual of men, had not 
appeared. He opened the paper and sat down to wait. 
Ten minutes passed, fifteen, twenty. He rang the bell. 
“Have you heard my father this morning?” he said to 
Jeffrey, remembering for the first time that he him¬ 
self had not. 

“No, sir,” said the man. “He most generally coughs 
a little in the morning, but I don’t think I heard him 
this morning, sir.” 

“Go up and see why he doesn’t come down,” said 
John 5 and a moment later he followed the servant up¬ 
stairs, to find him standing at the chamber door with a 
frightened face. 

“He must be very sound asleep, sir,” said Jeffrey. 
“He hasn’t answered to my knockin’ or callin’, sir.” 

John tried the door. He found the chain-bolt on, and 
it opened but a few inches. “Father ! ” he called, and 
then again, louder. He turned almost unconsciously to 
Jeffrey, and found his own apprehensions reflected in 
the man’s face. “We must break in the door,” he said. 
“Now, together ! ” and the bolt gave way. 

His father lay as if asleep. “Go for the doctor at 
once ! Bring him back with you. Run ! ” he cried to 
the servant. Custom and instinct said, “Send for the 
doctor,” but he knew in his heart that no ministrations 
would ever reach the still figure on the bed, upon which, 
for the moment, he could not look. 

It was but a few minutes—how long such minutes 

16 


104 


DAVID HARUM 


are !—before the doctor came—Doctor Willis, who had 
brought John into the world, and had been a lifelong 
friend of both father and son. He went swiftly to the 
bed without speaking, and made a brief examination, 
while John watched him with fascinated eyes; and as 
the doctor finished, the son dropped on his knees by 
the bed and buried his face in it. 

The doctor crossed the room to Jeffrey, who was 
standing in the door with an awe-stricken face, and in 
a low voice gave him some directions. Then, as the 
man departed, he first glanced at the kneeling figure 
and next looked searckingly about the room. Presently 
he went over to the grate in which were the ashes of an 
extinct fire, and, taking the poker, pressed down among 
them and covered over a three- or four-ounce vial. He 
had found what lie was looking for. 

There is no need to speak of the happenings of the 
next few days, nor is it necessary to touch at any length 
upon the history of some of the weeks and months 
which ensued upon this crisis in John Lenox’s life, a 
time when it seemed to him that everything he had 
ever cared for had been taken. And yet, with that 
unreason which may perhaps be more easily under¬ 
stood than accounted for, the one thing upon which his 
mind most often dwelt was that he had had no answer 
to his note to Mary Blake. We know what happened 
to her missive. It turned up long afterwards in the 
pocket of Master Jacky Carling’s overcoat—so long 
afterwards that John, as far as Mary was concerned, 
had disappeared altogether. The discovery of .Tacky’s 
dereliction , explained to her, in part at least, why she 
had never seen him or heard from him after that last 


DAVID HARUM 


105 

evening at Sixty-ninth Street. The Carlings went away 
some ten days later, and she did, in fact, send another 
note to his house address, asking him to see them before 
their departure ; but John had considered himself for¬ 
tunate in getting the house off his hands to a tenant 
who would assume the lease if given possession at once, 
and had gone into the modest apartment which he oc¬ 
cupied during the rest of his life in the city, and so the 
second communication failed to reach him. Perhaps it 
was as well. Some weeks later lie walked up to the 
Carlings’ house one Sunday afternoon, and saw that it 
was closed, as he had expected. By an impulse which 
was not part of his original intention—which was, in¬ 
deed, pretty nearly aimless—he was moved to ring the 
door-bell 5 but the maid, a stranger to him, who opened 
the door could tell him nothing of the family’s where¬ 
abouts, and Mi*. Betts (the house-man in charge) was 
“liout.” So John retraced his steps with a feeling of 
disappointment wholly disproportionate to his hopes 
or expectations so far as he had defined them to him¬ 
self, and never went back again. 

He has never had much to say of the months that 
followed. 

It came to be the last of October. An errand from 
the office had sent him to General Wolsey of the 
Mutual Trust Company, of whom mention has been 
made by David Harum. The general was an old friend 
of the elder Lenox, and knew John Avell and kindly. 
When the latter had discharged his errand and was 
about to go, the general said : “Wait a minute. Are 
you in a hurry? If not, I want to have a little talk 
with you.” 

“Not specially,” said John. 


io6 


DAVID HARUM 



“Sit down/’ said the general, pointing to a chair. 
“What are your plans? I see you are still in the 
Careys’ office, but from what you told me last summer 
I conclude that you are there because you have not 
found anything more satisfactory.” 

“That is the case, sir,” John replied. “I can’t be 
idle, but I don’t see how I can keep on as I am going- 
now, and I have been trying for months to find some¬ 
thing by which I can earn 
a living. I am afraid,” he 
added, “that it will be a 
longer time than I can 


afford to wait before I shall be able to do that out 
of the law.” 


“If you don’t mind my asking,” said the general, 
“what are your resources? I don’t think you told me 
more than to give me to understand that your father’s 
affairs were at a pretty low ebb. Of course, I do not 
wish to pry into your affairs—” 

“Not at all,” John interposed ; “I am glad to tell you, 
and thank you for your interest. I have about two 





































DAVID HARUM 


107 

thousand dollars, and there is some silver and odds and 
ends of things stored. I don’t know what their value 
might be—not very much, I fancy—and there were a 
lot of mining stocks and that sort of thing which have 
no value so far as I can find out—no available value, at 
any rate. There is also a tract of half-wild land some¬ 
where in Pennsylvania. There is coal on it, I believe, 
and some timber ; but Melig, my father’s manager, told 
me that all the large timber had been cut. So far as 
available value is concerned, the property is about as 
much of an asset as the mining stock, with the disad¬ 
vantage that I have to pay taxes on it.” 

“H’m,” said the general, tapping the desk with his 
eye-glasses. “H’m—well, I should think if you lived 
very economically you would have about enough to 
carry you through till you can be admitted, provided 
you feel that the law is your vocation,” he added, look¬ 
ing up. 

“It was my father’s idea,” said John, “and if I were 
so situated that I could go on with it, I would. But 
I am so doubtful with regard to my aptitude that I 
don’t feel as if I ought to use up what little capital I 
have, and some years of time, on a doubtful experiment, 
and so I have been looking for something else to do.” 

“Well,” said the general, “if you were very much 
interested—that is, if you were anxious to proceed 
with your studies—I should advise you to go on, and 
at a pinch I should be willing to help you out; but, 
feeling as you do, I hardly know what to advise. I 
was thinking of you,” he went on, “before you came in, 
and was intending to send for you to come in to see 
me.” He took a letter from his desk. “I got this yes¬ 
terday,” he said. “It is from an old acquaintance of 


io8 


DAVID HARUM 


mine by the name of Harum, who lives in Homeville, 
Freeland County. He is a sort of a banker there, and 
has written me to recommend some one to take the 
place of his manager or cashier whom he is sending 
away. It’s rather a queer move, I think, but then,” 
said the general, with a smile, “Harum is a queer cus¬ 
tomer in some ways of his own. There is his letter. 
Read it for yourself.” 

The letter stated that Mr. Hamm had had some 
trouble with his cashier and wished to replace him, and 
that he would prefer some one from out of the village 
who wouldn’t know every man, woman, and child in 
the whole region, and “blab everything right and left.” 
“I should want,” wrote Mr. Harum, “to have the young 
man know something about bookkeeping and so on, 
but I should not insist upon his having been through a 
trainer’s hands. In fact, I would rather break him in 
myself, and if lie’s willing and sound and no vice, I can 
get him into shape. I will pay a thousand to start on, 
and if he draws and travels all right, maybe better in 
the long run,” etc. 

John handed back the letter with a slight smile, 
which was reflected in the face of the general. “What 
do you think of it!” asked the latter. 

“I thould think it might be very characteristic,” 
remarked John. 

“Yes,” said the general, “it is, to an extent. You 
see he writes pretty fair English, and he can, on occa- 
sion, talk as he writes, but usually, either from habit 
or choice, he uses the most unmitigated dialect. But 
what I meant to ask you was, what do you think of the 
proposal! ” 

“You mean as an opportunity for inet” asked John. 


DAVID HARUM 


10 U 


“Yes,” said General AVolsey, “I thought of you at 
once.” 

“'Thank you very much,” said John. “What would 
be your idea?” 

“Well,” was the reply, “I am inclined to think I 
should write to him if I were you, and I will write to 
him about you if you so decide. You have had some 
office experience, you told me—enough, I should say, 
for a foundation, and I don’t believe that Hamm’s 
books and accounts are very complicated.” 

John did not speak, and the general went on : “Of 
course, it will be a great change from almost everything 
you have been used to, and I dare say that you may 
find the life, at first at least, pretty dull and irksome. 
The stipend is not very large, but it is large for the 
country, where your expenses will be light. In fact, 
I’m rather surprised at his offering so much. At any 
rate, it is a living for the present, and may lead to 
something better. The place is a growing one, and, 
more than that, Harum is well off, and keejjs more 
irons in the fire than one, and if you get on with him 
you may do w r ell.” 

“I don’t think I should mind the change so much,” 
said John, rather sadly. “My present life is so different 
in almost every way from what it used to be, and I 
think I feel it in New York more even than I might in 
a country village ; but the venture seems a little like 
burning my bridges.” 

“Well,” replied the general, “if the experiment 
should turn out a failure for any reason, you won’t be 
very much more at a loss than at present, it seems to 
me, and of course I will do anything I can should you 
wish me to be still 011 the lookout for you here.” 


1 10 


DAVID HARUM 


“You are exceedingly kind, sir,” said John earnestly, 
and then was silent for a moment or two. “I will make 
the venture,” he said at length, “and thank you very 
much.” 

“You are under no special obligations to the Careys, 
are you?” asked the general. 

“No, I think not,” said John, with a laugh. “I fancy 
that their business will go on without me, after a 
fashion,” and he took his leave. 


CHAPTER XII 


And so it came about that certain letters were written 
as mentioned in a previous chapter, and in the evening 
of a dripping day early in November John Lenox found 
himself, after a nine hours’ journey, the only traveler 
who alighted upon the platform of the Homeville sta¬ 
tion, which was near the end of a small lake and about 
a mile from the village. As he stood with his bag and 
umbrella, at a loss what to do, he was accosted by a 
short and stubby individual with very black eyes and 
hair and a round face, which would have been smooth 
except that it had not been shaved for a day or two. 
“Goin’t’ the village 1 ?” he said. 

“Yes,” said John, “that is my intention, but I don’t 
see any way of getting there.” 

“Carry ye over fer ten cents,” said the man. “Car¬ 
ryall’s right back the deepo. Got ’ny baggidge? ” 

“Two trunks,” said John. 

“That’ll make it thirty cents,” said the native. 
“Where’s your checks? All right; you c’n jest stej) 
round an’ git in. Mine’s the only rig that drew over 
to-night.” 

It was a long, clumsy affair, with windows at each 
end and a door in the rear, but open at the sides, except 
for enamel-cloth curtains, which were buttoned to the 
supports that carried a railed roof extending as far for- 
ward as the dash-board. The driver’s seat was on a level 
with those inside. John took a seat by one of the front 
windows, which was open but protected by the roof. 

His luggage having been put on board, they began 


17 


1 12 


DAVID HARUM 



the journey at a walk, the first part of the road being 
rough aud swampy in places, and undergoing at inter¬ 
vals the sort of re¬ 
pairs which often 
prevails in rural 
regions—namely, the 
deposit of a quantity 
of broken stone, 
which is left to be 
worn smooth bypass¬ 
ing vehicles, and is 
for the most part 
carefully avoided by 
such whenever the 
roadway is broad 
enough to drive 
around the improve¬ 
ment. But the worst 
of the way having 
been accomplished, 
the driver took op¬ 
portunity, speaking 
sideways over his shoulder, to allay the curiosity 
which burned within him : “Guess I never seen you 
before.” 

John was tired and hungry, and generally low in his 
mind. “Very likely not,” was his answer. 

Mr. Robinson instantly arrived at the determination 
that the stranger was “stuck up,” but was in no degree 
cast down thereby. 

“I heard Chet Timson tellin’ that the’ was a feller 
cornin’ fm W York to work in Dave Hamm’s bank. 
Guess you’re him, ain’t yet” 

No answer this time : theory confirmed. 









DAVID HARUM 


1 13 

“My name’s Robinson/’ imparted that individual. 
“I run the prince’ple liv’ry to Homeville.” 

“Ah !” responded the passenger. 

“What’d you say your name was! ” asked Mr. Robin¬ 
son, after he had steered his team around one of the 
monuments to public spirit. 

“It’s Lenox/’ said John, thinking he might concede 
something to such deserving perseverance, “but I don’t 
remember mentioning it.” 

“Now I think on’t, I guess you didn’t,” admitted Mr. 
Robinson. “Don’t think I ever knowed anybody of the 
name,” he remarked. “L T sed to know some folks name 
o’ Lynch, but they couldn’t ’a’ ben no relations o’ yourn, 
I guess.” 

This conjecture elicited no reply. 

“Git up, goll darn ye ! ” he exclaimed, as one of the 
horses stumbled, and he gave it a jerk and a cut of the 
whip. “Bought that hoss of Dave Harum,” he confided 
to his passenger. “Fact, I bought both on ’em of him— 
an’ dum well stuck I was, too,” he added. 

“You know Mr. Harum, then,” said John, with a 
glimmer of interest. “Does he deal in horses!” 

“Wa’al, I guess I make eout to know him,” asserted 
the “prince’ple liv’ryman,” “an’ he’ll git up hi the 
middle o’ the night 
any time to git the 
best of a hoss trade. 

Be you goin’ to work 
fer him!” lie asked, 
encouraged to press 
the question. “Goin’ to take Timson’s place!" 

“Really,” said John, in a tone which advanced Mr. 
Robinson’s opinion to a rooted conviction, “I have 
never heard of Mr. Tiinson.” 








H 4 


DAVID HARUM 


“He’s the feller that Dave’s lettin’ go,” explained 
Mr. Robinson. “He’s ben in the bank a matter o' five 
or six year, but Dave got down on him fer some little 
thing or other, an’ he’s got his walkin’-papers. He 
says to me, says he, ‘If any feller thinks he c’n come 
up here f’111 N’ York or anywheres else,’ he says, ‘an’ 
do Dave Harum’s work to suit him, he’ll find lie's bit 
off a dum sight more’n he c’n chaw. He’d better keep 
his gripsack packed the hull time,’ Chet says.” 

“I thought I’d sock it to the cuss a little,” remarked 
Mr. Robinson, in recounting the conversation subse¬ 
quently ; and, in truth, it was not elevating to the 
spirits of our friend, who found himself speculating 
. whether or no Timson might not be right. 

“Where you goin’ to put up?” asked Mr. Robinson, 
after an interval, having failed to draw out any re¬ 
sponse to his last effort. 

“Is there more than one hotel?” inquired the pas¬ 
senger. 

“Tlie’s the Eagle, an’ the Lake House, an’ Smith’s 
Hotel,” replied Jehu. 

“Which would you recommend?” asked John. 

“Wa’al,” said Robinson, “I don’t gen’ally praise up 
one more’n another. You see, I have more or less 
dealin’ with all on ’em.” 

“That’s very diplomatic of you, I’m sure,” remarked 
John, not at all diplomatically. “I think I will try 
the Eagle.” 

Mr. Robinson, in his account of the conversation, said 
in confidence—not wishing to be openly invidious—that 
“he was dum’d if he wa’n’t almost sorry he hadn’t recom¬ 
mended the Lake House.” 

It may be inferred from the foregoing that the first 



DAVID HARUM 


impression which our friend made 011 his arrival was 
not wholly in his favor, and Mr. Robinson’s conviction 
that he was “stuck up,” and a person bound to get him¬ 
self “gen’ally disliked,” was elevated to an article of 
faith by his retiring to the rear of the vehicle, and 
quite out of ordinary range. But they were nearly at 
their journey’s end, and presently the carryall drew up 
at the Eagle Hotel. 

It was a frame building of three stories, with a covered 
veranda running the length of the front, from which 
two doors gave entrance, one to the main hall, the other 
to the office and bar combined. This was rather a large 
room, and was also to be entered from the hall. 

John’s luggage was deposited, Mr. Robinson was set¬ 
tled with and took his departure without the amenities 
which might have prevailed under different conditions, 
and the new arrival made his way into the office. 

At the end of the counter, which faced the street, 
was a glazed case containing three or four partly filled 
boxes of forlorn-looking cigars. At the other end stood 
the proprietor, manager, clerk, and what-not of the 
hostelry, embodied in the single person of Mr. Amos 
Elright, engaged in conversation with two loungers 
who sat about the room in chairs tipped back against 
the wall. 

A sketch of Mr. Elright would have depicted a dull- 
“complected” person of a tousled baldness, whose dis¬ 
pirited expression of countenance was enhanced by a 
chin whisker. His shirt and collar gave unmistakable 
evidence that pyjamas or other night-gear were re¬ 
garded as superfluities, and his most conspicuous gar¬ 
ment as he appeared behind the counter was a cardigan 
jacket of a frouziness beyond compare. A greasy neck- 


116 


DAVID HA RUM 


scarf was embellished with a gem whose truthfulness 
was without pretense. The atmosphere of the room 
was accounted for by a remark which was made by one 
of the loungers as John came in. “Say, Ame/’ the 
fellow drawled, “I guess the’ was more skunk-cabbidge 
’n’ pie plant ’n usual ’n that last lot o’ cigars o’ yourn, 


/ 


< 



wa’n’t the’?” To 
which insinuation 
“Ame” was spared 
the necessity of a 
rejoinder by our friend’s advent. 
“Wa’al, guess we c’n give ye a room. 
Oh, yes, you c’n register if you want to. Where is the 
dum thing? I seen it last week somewhere. Oh, yes,” 
producing a thin book ruled for accounts from under 
the counter. “We don’t alwus use it,” he remarked; 
which was obvious, seeing that the last entry was a 
month old. 


John concluded that it was a useless formality. “I 












DAVID HARUM 


11 7 

should like something to eat,” he said, “and desire to 
go to my room while it is being prepared ; and can you 
send my luggage up now?” 

“ Wa’al,” said Mr. Elright, looking at the clock, which 
showed the hour of half past nine, and rubbing his chin 
perplexedly, “supper’s ben cleared off some time ago.” 

“I don’t want very much,” said John; “just a bit of 
steak, and some stewed.potatoes, and a couple of boiled 
eggs, and some coffee.” 

He might have heard the sound of a slap in the direc¬ 
tion of one of the sitters. 

“I’m ’fraid I can’t ’commodate ye fur’s the steak an’ 
things goes,” confessed the landlord. “We don’t do 
much cookin’ after dinner, an’ I reckon the fire’s out 
anyway. P’r’aps,” he added doubtfully, “I c’d hunt ye 
up a piece o’ pie ’n’ some doughnuts, or somethin’ like 
that.” 

He took a key, to which was attached a huge brass 
tag with serrated edges, from a hook on a board behind 
the bar—on which were suspended a number of the like 
—lighted a small kerosene lamp carrying a single wick, 
and, shuffling out from behind the counter, said, “Say, 
Bill, can’t you an’ Hick carry the gentleman’s trunks 
up to 13?” and, as they assented, he gave the lamp 
and key to one of them and left the room. The two 
men took a trunk at either end and mounted the stairs, 
John following, and when the second one came up he 
put his fingers into his waistcoat pocket suggestively. 

“No,” said the one addressed as Hick, “that’s all 
right. We done it to oblige Ame.” 

“I’m very much obliged to you, though,” said John. 

“Oh, that’s all right,” remarked Hick as they turned 
away. 


u8 


DAVID HARUM 


John surveyed the apartment. There were two small- 
paned windows overlooking the street, curtained with 
bright “Turkey-red v cotton; near to one of them a 
small wood-stove and a wood-box, containing some 
odds and ends of sticks and bits of bark ; a small chest 
of drawers, serving as a wash-stand; a malicious little 
looking-glass; a basin and ewer holding about two 



quarts; an earthenware mug and soap-dish, the latter 
containing a thin bit of red translucent soap scented 
with sassafras; an ordinary wooden 
chair and a rocking-chair with rockers 
of divergent aims; a yellow wooden 


bedstead furnished with a mattress of “excelsior ” (cal¬ 
culated to induce early rising), a dingy white spread^ 
a gray blanket of coarse wool, a pair of cotton sheets 
which had too obviously done duty since passing through 
the hands of the laundress, and a pair of llabby little 
pillows in the same state, in respect to their cases, as 
the sheets. On the floor was a much used and faded 
ingrain carpet, in one place worn through by the edge 
of a loose board. A narrow strip of unpainted pine 
nailed to the wall carried six or seven wooden pegs to 
serve as wardrobe. Two diminutive towels with red 
borders hung on the rail of the wash-stand, and a bat¬ 
tered tin slop-jar, minus a cover, completed the in¬ 
ventory. 

















DAVID HARUM 


ll 9 


“Heavens, what a hole ! ” exclaimed John, and as he 
performed his ablutions (not with the sassafras soap) he 
promised himself a speedy flitting. There came a 
knock at the door, and his host appeared to announce 
that his “tea” was ready, and to conduct him to the 
dining-room—a good-sized apartment, but narrow, with 
a long table running near the center lengthwise, covered 
with a cloth which bore the marks of many a fray. 
Another table of like dimensions, but bare, was shoved 
up against the wall. Mr. Elright’s ravagement of the 
larder had resulted in a triangle of cadaverous apple- 
pie, three doughnuts, some chunks of soft white cheese, 
and a plate of what are known as oyster-crackers. 

“I couldn’t git ye no tea,” he said. “The hired girls 
both gone out, an’ my wife’s gone to bed, an’ the’ wa’n’t 
no fire anyway.” 

“I suppose I could have some beer,” suggested John, 
looking dubiously at the banquet. 

“We don’t keep no ale,” said the proprietor of the 
Eagle, “an’ I guess we’re out o’ lawger. I ben intendin’ 
to git some more,” he added. 

“A glass of milk?” proposed the guest, but without 
confidence. 

“Milkman didn’t come to-night,” said Mr. Elright, 
shuffling off in his carpet slippers, worn out in spirit by 
the importunities of the stranger. 

There was water on the table, for it had been left 
there from supper-time. John managed to consume a 
doughnut and some crackers and cheese, and then went 
to his room, carrying the water-pitcher with him, and, 
after a cigarette or two and a small potation from his 
flask, to bed. Before retiring, however, he stripped the 
bed with the intention of turning the sheets, but upon 
18 


1 20 


DAVID HARUM 


inspection thought better of it, and concluded to leave 
them as they were. So passed his first night in Home* 
ville, and, as he fondly promised himself, his last at the 
Eagle Hotel. 

When Bill and Dick returned to the office after 
“obligin’ Ame,” they stepped with one accord to the 
counter and looked at the register. “Why, darn 
it,” exclaimed Bill, “he didn’t sign his name, after 
all ! ” 

“No,” said Hick, “but I c’n give a putty near guess 
who lie is, all the same.” 

“Some drummer?” suggested Bill. 

“Naw ! ” said Richard scornfully. “What’d a drum¬ 
mer be doin’ here this time o’ year? That’s the feller 
that’s ousted Chet Timson, an’ I’ll bet ye the drinks 
on’t. Name’s Linx or Lenx, or somethin’ like that. 
Dave told me.” 

“So that’s the feller, is it?” said Bill. “I guess he 
won’t stay round here long. I guess you’ll find he’s a 
little too tony fer these parts, an’ in pertic’ler fer Have 
Harum. Have’ll make him feel ’bout as comftable as 
a rooster in a pond. Lord,” he exclaimed, slapping his 
leg with a guffaw, “’d you notice Arne’s face when he 
said he didn’t want much fer supper, only beefsteak, 
an’ eggs, an’ tea, an’ coffee, an’ a few little things like 
that? I thought I’d split.” 

“Yes,” said Hick, laughing, “I guess the’ ain’t nothin’ 
the matter with Arne’s heart, or he’d ’a’ fell down dead. 
Hullo, Ame ! ” he said when the gentleman in ques¬ 
tion came back after ministering to his guest, “got the 
Prince o’ Wales fixed up all right? Hid ye cut that 
pickled el’phant that come last week?” 


DAVID HARUM 


121 


“Huh !” grunted Amos, whose sensibilities had been 
wounded by the events of the evening, “I didn’t cut 
no el’phant ner no cow, ner rob no hen-roost neither, 
but I guess he won’t starve ’fore mornin’ ” ; and with 
that he proceeded to fill up the stove and shut the 
dampers. 

“That means ‘Git!’ I reckon,” remarked Bill as he 
watched the operation. 

“Wa’al,” said Mr. Elriglit, “if you fellers think you’ve 
spent enough time droolin’ round here swappin’ lies, I 
think III go to 



bed”; which in¬ 
hospitable and in¬ 
jurious remark 
was by no means 
taken in bad part, 
for Dick said, with 
a laugh : 

“Well, Arne, if 


you’ll let me run my face for ’em, Bill ’n’ I'll take a 
little somethin’ for the good o’ the house before we shed 
the partin’ tear.” 

This proposition was not declined by Mr. Elriglit, 














122 


DAVID HARUM 


but lie felt bound on business principles not to yield 
with too great a show of readiness. 

“Wa’al, I don’t mind for this once/’ he said, going 
behind the bar and setting out a bottle and glasses, “but 
I’ve gen’ally noticed that it’s a damn sight easier to git 
somethin’ into you fellers ’n ’t is to git anythin’ out 
of ye.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


The next morning at nine o’clock John presented him¬ 
self at Mr. Hamm’s banking office, which occupied the 
first floor of a brick building some twenty or twenty - 
five feet in width. Besides the entrance to the bank, 
there was a door at the south corner opening upon a 
stairway leading to a suite of two rooms on the second 
floor. 

The banking office consisted of two rooms—one in 
front, containing the desks and counters, and what may 
be designated as the “parlor” (as used to be the case 
in the provincial towns) in the rear, in which were Mr. 
Harum’s private desk, a safe of medium size, the neces¬ 
sary assortment of chairs, and a lounge. There was also 
a large Franklin stove. 

The parlor was separated from the front room by a 
partition, in which were two doors, one leading into the 
inclosed space behind the desks and counters, and the 
other into the passageway formed by the north wall and 
a length of high desk topped by a railing. The teller’s 
or cashier’s counter faced the street opposite the en¬ 
trance door. At the left of this counter (viewed from 
the front) was a high-standing desk with a rail. At 
the right was a glass-inclosed space of counter of the 
same height as that portion which was open, across 
which latter the business of paying and receiving was 
conducted. 

As John entered he saw standing behind this open 
counter, framed, as it were, between the desk on the 
one hand and the glass inclosure on the other, a person 


124 


DAVID HAKUM 


whom lie conjectured to be the “Chet” (short for 
Chester) Timson of whom he had heard. This person 
nodded in response to our friend’s “Good-morning,” 
and anticipated his inquiry by saying: 

“You lookin’ for Dave?” 

“I am looking for Mr. Harum,” said John. “Is he 
in the office!” 

“He hain’t come in yet,” was the reply. “Up to the 
barn, I reckon. But lie’s liable to come in any minute? 

an’ you c’n step into the 
back room an’ wait fer 
him,” indicating the di¬ 
rection with a wave of 
his hand. 

Business had not begun 
to be engrossing, though 
the bank was open, and 
John had hardly seated 
himself when Timson 
came into the back room 
and, taking a chair where 
he could see the counter 
in the front office, pro¬ 
ceeded to investigate the 
stranger, of whose iden- 
t ity he had not the small¬ 
est doubt. But it was not 
Mr. Timson’s way to take things for gran ted in silence, and 
it must be admitted that his curiosity in this particular 
case was not without warrant. After a scrutiny of 
John’s face and person, which was not brief enough 
to be unnoticeable, he said, with a directness which 
left nothing in that line to be desired, “I reckon 















DAVID HA RUM 


125 


you’re the new man Dave’s ben gettin’ up from the 
city.” 

“I came up yesterday/’ admitted John. 

“My name’s Timson,” said Chet. 

“Happy to meet you,” said John, rising and putting 
out his hand. “My name is Lenox.” And they shook 
hands—that is, John grasped the ends of four limp 
fingers. After they had subsided into their seats, 
Chet’s opaquely bluish eyes made another tour of in¬ 
spection, in curiosity and wonder. 

“You alwus lived in the city?” he said at last. 

“It has always been my home,” was the reply. 

“What put it in your head to come up here?” with 
another stare. 

“It was at Mr. Haruin’s suggestion,” replied John, 
not with perfect candor ; but he was not minded to be 
drawn out too far. 

“D’ye know Dave?” 

“I have never met him.” 

Mr. Timson looked more puzzled than ever. 

“Ever ben in the bankin’ bus’nis?” 

“I have had some experience of such accounts in a 
general way.” 

“Ever keep books?” 

“Only as I have told you,” said John, smiling at the 
little man. 

“Got any idee what you’ll have to do up here?” 
asked Chet. 

“Only in a general way.” 

“Wa’al,” said Mr. Timson, “I c’n tell ye ; an’, what’s 
more , I c’n tell ye, young man, ’t you hain’t no idee of what 
you’re undertakin’, an’ ef you don’t wish you was back in 
New York ’fore you git through, I ain’t 110 guesser.” 


126 


DAVID HARUM 


“That is possible/’ said John readily, recalling his 
night and his breakfast that morning. 

“Yes, sir,” said the other. “Yes, sir. If yon do what 
I’ve had to do, you’ll do the hull darned thing, an’ no¬ 
body to help you but Pele Hopkins, who don’t count fer 
a row o’ crooked pins. As fur’s Dave’s concerned,” 
asserted the speaker, with a wave of his hands, “he don’t 
know no more about bankin’ ’n a cat. He couldn’t 
count a thousan’ dollars in an hour; an’ as for addin’ 
up a row o’ figures, he couldn’t git it twice alike, I 
don’t believe, if he was to be hung for’t.” 

“He must understand the meaning of his own books 
and accounts, I should think,” remarked John. 

“Oh,” said Chet scornfully, “anybody c’d do that; 
that’s easy ’nough: but as fur’s the real bus’nis is con¬ 
cerned, he don’t have nothin’ to do with it. It’s all ben 
left to me: chargin’ an’ creditin’, postin’, individule 
ledger, gen’ral ledger, bill-book, discount register, tick¬ 
ler, for’n register, checkin’ off the N’ York accounts, 
drawin’ off statcmunts f’m the ledgers an’ bill-book, 
writin’ letters—why, the’ ain’t an hour ’n the day in 
bus’nis hours some days that the’s an hour’t I ain’t 
busy ’bout somethin’. Ho, sir,” continued Chet, “Dave 
don’t give himself no trouble about the bus’nis. All he 
does is to look after tendin’ the money, an’ seein’ that 
it gits paid when the time comes, an’ keep track of how 
much money the’ is here an’ in N’ York, an’ what notes 
is coinin’ due—an’ a few things like that, that don’t put 
pen to paper, ner take an hour of his time. Why, a 
man’ll come in an’ want to git a note done, an’ it’ll be 
1 All right,’ or 1 Can’t spare the money to-day,’ all in a 
minute. He don’t give it no thought at all, an’ he ain’t 
round here half the time. Now,” said Chet, “when I 




DAVID HARUM 


127 


work fer a man I like to have him round so’t I c’n 
say to him, ‘ Shall I do it so or shall I do it so ? Shall 
I or sha’n’t I?’ An’ then when I make a mistake— ’s 
anybody’s liable to—lie’s as much to blame’s I be.” 

“I suppose, then,” said John, “that you must have to 
keep Mr. Harum’s private accounts also, seeing that he 
knows so little of details. I have been told that he is 
interested in a good many matters besides this business.” 

“Wa’al,” replied Timson, somewhat disconcerted, “I 
suppose he must keep ’em himself in some kind of a 
fashion, an’ I don’t know a thing about any outside 
matters of hisn, though I suspicion he has got quite a 
few. He’s got some books in that safe ” (pointing with 
his finger), “an’ he’s got a safe in the vault, but if you’ll 
believe me”—and the speaker looked as if he hardly 
expected it—“I hain’t never so much as seen the 
inside of either one on ’em. "No, sir,” he declared, “I 
hain’t no more idee of what’s in them safes ’n you have. 
He’s close, Have Harum is,” said Chet, with a convinc¬ 
ing motion of the head j “on the hull, the cl os test man 
1 ever see. I believe,” he averred, “that, if he was to 
lay out to keep it shut, that lightnin’ might strike him 
square in the mouth an’ it wouldn’t go in an eighth of 
an inch. An’ yet,” he added, “he c’n talk by the rod 
when he takes a notion.” 

“Must be a difficult person to get on with,” com¬ 
mented John dryly. 

“I couldn’t stan’ it no longer,” declared Mr. Timson, 
with the air of one who had endured to the end of 
virtue, “an’ I says to him the other day, ‘ Wa’al,’ I says, 
‘if I can’t suit ye, mebbe you’d better suit yourself.’ ” 

“Ah ! ” said John politely, seeing that some response 
was expected of him ; “and what did he say to that? ” 
19 


1 2(S 


DAVID HARUM 


“He ast me,” replied Cliet, “if I meant by that to 
throw up the situation. AVa’al,’ I says, ‘I’m sick 
enough to throw up ’most anythin’,’ I says, ‘ along with 
bein’ found fault with fer nothin’.’” 

“And then?” queried John, who had received the 
impression that the motion to adjourn had come from 
the other side of the house. 

“Wa’al,” replied Chet, not quite so confidently, “he 
said somethin’ about my requirin’ a larger sp’ere of 
action, an’ that he thought I’d do better on a mile track 
—some o’ his hoss talk. That’s another thing,” said 
Timson, changing the subject. “He’s all fer bosses. 
He’d sooner make a ten-dollar note on a hoss trade 
than a hunderd right here ’n this office. Many’s the 
time, right in bus’nis hours, when I’ve wanted to ask 
him how he wanted somethin’ done, he’d be busy talkin’ 
hoss, an’ wouldn’t pay no attention to me more’n’s if I 
wa’n’t there.” 

“I am glad to feel,” said John, “that you cannot 
possibly have any unpleasant feeling toward me, seeing 
that you resigned as you did.” 

“Cert’nly not, cert’nly not,” declared Timson, a little 
uneasily. “If it hadn’t ’a’ ben you, it would ’a’ had to 
ben somebody else. An’ now I seen you an’ had a talk 
with you—wa’al, I guess I better git back into the 
other room. Dave’s liable to come in any minute. 
But,” he said in parting, “I will give ye piece of advice : 
You keep enough laid by to pay your gettin’ back to 
N’ York. You may want it in a hurry.” And with this 
parting shot the rejected one took his leave. 

The bank parlor was lighted by a window and a 
glazed door in the rear wall, and another window on 


DAVID HARUM 


12 y 

the south side. Mr. Hamm’s desk was by the rear or 
west window, which gave view of his house, standing 
some hundred feet back from the street. The south or 
side window afforded a view of his front yard and that 
of an adjoining dwelling, beyond which rose the wall 
of a mercantile block. Business was encroaching upon 
David’s domain. Our friend stood looking out of the 
south window. To the left a bit of*Main Street was 
visible, and the naked branches of the elms and maples 
with which it was bordered were waving defiantly at 
their rivals over the way, incited thereto by a north¬ 
west wind. 

We invariably form a mental picture of every un¬ 
known person of whom we think at all. It may lie so 
faint that we are unconscious of it at the time, or so 
vivid that it is always recalled until dissipated by seeing 
the person himself, or his likeness. But that we do so 
make a picture is proved by the fact that upon being 
confronted by the real features of the person in question 
we always experience a certain amount of surprise, even 
when we have not been conscious of a different concep¬ 
tion of him. 

Be that as it may, however, there was no question in 
John Lenox’s mind as to the identity of the person who 
at last came briskly into the back office and interrupted 
his meditations. Bather under the middle height, he 
was broad-shouldered and deep-chested, with a clean¬ 
shaven red face, with, not a mole, but a slight protu¬ 
berance the size of half a large pea on the line from the 
nostril to the corner of the mouth ; bald over the crown 
and to a line a couple of inches above the ear, below 
that thick and somewhat bushy hair of yellowish red, 
showing a mingling of gray ; small but very blue eyes ; 


i3° 


DAVID HARUM 


a thick nose of no classifiable shape, and a large mouth 
with the lips so pressed together as to produce a slightly 
downward and yet rather humorous curve at the cor¬ 
ners. He was dressed in a sack-coat of dark a pepper- 
and-salt,” with waistcoat and trousers to match. A 
somewhat old-fashioned standing collar, flaring away 
from the throat, was encircled by a red cravat, tied in 
a bow under his chin. A diamond stud of perhaps two 
carats showed in the triangle of spotless shirt front, and 
on his head was a cloth cap with ear-lappets. He 

accosted our friend 
with “I reckon you 
must be Mr. Lenox. 
How are you? I’m 
glad to see you,” 
tugging off a thick 
buckskin glove and 
putting outaplump 
but muscular hand. 

John thanked him 
as they shook hands, 
and “hoped he was 
well.” 

“Wa’al,” said Mr. 
Harum, “I’m im¬ 
provin’ slowly. I’ve 
got so’t I c’n set up 
long enough to have my bed made. Come last night, 
I s’pose? Anybody to the deepo to bring ye over? 
This time o’ year once ’n awhile the’ don’t nobody go 
over fer passengers.” 

John said that he had had no trouble ; a man by the 
name of Robinson had brought him and his luggage. 






DAVID HARUM 


“E-up !” said David, with a nod, backing up to the 
fire which was burning in the grate of the Franklin 
stove, “‘Dug’ Robinson. ’D he do the p’lite thing in 
the matter of questions an’ gen’ral conversation?” he 
asked, with a grin. 

John laughed in reply to this question. 

“Where’d you put up?” asked David. 

John said that he passed the night at the Eagle Hotel. 

Mr. Harum had seen Dick Larrabee that morning 
and heard what he had to say of our friend’s recep¬ 
tion, but he liked to get his information from original 
sources. 

“Make ye putty comf’table?” he asked, turning to 
eject a mouthful into the fire. 

“I got along pretty well under the circumstances,” 
said John. 

Mr. Harum did not press the inquiry. “How ’d you 
leave the gen’ral?” he inquired. 

“He seemed to be well,” replied John, “and he 
wished to be kindly remembered to you.” 

“Fine man, the gen’ral,” declared David, well pleased. 
“Fine man all round. Word’s as good as his bond. 
Yes, sir, when the gen’ral gives his warrant, I don’t 
care whether I see the critter or not. Know him 
much? ” 

“He and my father were old friends, and I have 
known him a good many years,” replied John, adding, 
“He has been very kind and friendly to me.” 

“Set down, set down,” said Mr. Harum, pointing to 
a chair. Seating himself, he took off* his cap and 
dropped it, with his gloves, on the floor. “How long 
you ben here in the office?” he asked. 

“Perhaps half an hour,” was the reply. 


V 3 2 


DAVID HARUM 


“I meant to have ben here when you come,” said the 
banker, “but I got hendered about a matter of a boss 
I’m looking at. I guess I’ll shut that door,” making a 
move toward the one into the front office. 

“Allow me,” said John, getting up and closing it. 

“May’s well shut the other one while you’re about 
it. Thank you,” as John resumed his seat. “I hain’t 
got nothin’ very private, but I’m ’fraid of distractin’ 
Timson’s mind. Did he int’duce himself! ” 

“Yes,” said John, “we introduced ourselves and had 
a few minutes’ conversation.” 

“Gin ye his hull liist’ry, an’ a few relations thro wed 
in!” 

“There was hardly time for that,” said John, smiling. 

“Rubbed a little furn’ture polish into my char’cter 
an’ repitation ! ” insinuated Mr. Harum. 

“Most of our talk was on the subject of his duties and 
responsibilities,” was John’s reply. 

(“Don’t cal’late to let on any more’n he cal’lates to,” 
thought David to himself.) 

“Allowed he run the hull shebang, didn’t he!” 

“He seemed to have a pretty large idea of what was 
required of one in his place,” admitted the witness. 

“Kind o’ friendly, was he!” asked David. 

“Well,” said John, “after we had talked for a while 
I said to him that I was glad to think that he could 
have no unpleasant feeling toward me, seeing that he 
had given up the place of his own preference, and he 
assured me that he had none.” 

David turned and looked at John for an instant, with 
a twinkle in his eye. The younger man returned the 
look and smiled. David laughed outright. 

“I guess you’ve seen folks before,” he remarked. 


DAVID HARUM 


] 33 

“I have never met any one exactly like Mr. Timson, 
I think,” said our friend, with a slight laugh. 

“Fortunitly them kind is rare,” observed Mr. Harum 
dryly, rising and going to his desk, from a drawer of 
which he produced a couple of cigars, one of which he 
proffered to Johu, who, for the first time in his life, 
during the next half-hour regretted that he was a 
smoker. David sat for two or three minutes puffing 
diligently, and then took the weed out of his mouth 
and looked contemplatively at it. 

“How do you like that cigar?” he inquired. 

“It burns very nicely,” said the victim. 

Mr. Harum emitted a cough which was like a 
chuckle, or a chuckle which was like a cough, and re¬ 
lapsed into silence again. Presently he turned his head, 
looked curiously at the young man for a moment, and 
then turned his glance again to the fire. 

“I’ve ben wonderin’ some,” he said, “pertic’lerly since 
I see you, how ’t was ’t you wanted to come up here to 
Homeville. Gen’l Wolsey gin his warrant, an’ so I 
reckon you hadn’t ben gettin’ into no scrape nor 
nothin’,” and again he looked sharply at the young 
man at his side. 

“Did the general say nothing of my affairs?” the 
latter asked. 

“No,” replied David ; “all’t he said was in a gen’ral 
way that he’d knowed you an’ your folks a good while, 
an’ he thought you’d be jest the feller I was lookin’ fer. 
Mebbe he reckoned that if you wanted your story told, 
you’d ruther tell it yourself.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


Whatever might have been John’s repugnance to 
making a confidant of the man whom he had known but 


for half an hour, he acknowledged to himself that the 
other’s curiosity was not only natural but proper. He 
could not but know that in appearance and manner he 
was in marked contrast with those whom the man had 
so far seen. He divined the fact that his coming from 
a great city to settle down in a village town would 
furnish matter for surprise and conjecture, and felt that 
it would be to his advantage with the man who was to 
be his employer that he should be perfectly and obvi¬ 
ously frank upon all matters of his own which might be 
properly mentioned. He had an instinctive feeling 

that Harum combined 
acuteness and suspi¬ 
ciousness to a very large 
degree, and he had also 
a feeling that the old 



Vf - 




n 

)i 




BBS 


r 


man’s confidence, once 
gained, would not be 


i 


f 




easily shaken. So he 
told his hearer so much 
of his history as he 
thought pertinent, and 
David listened without interruption or comment, save 
an occasional “E-uin’m.” 

“And here I am,” John remarked in conclusion. 
“Here you be , fer a fact,” said David. “Wa’al, the’s 








DAVID HARUM 


l 3S 

worse places ’n Homeville—after you git used to it,” be 
added in qualification. “I ben back here a matter o’ 
thirteen or fourteen year now, an’ am gettin’ to feel my 
way round putty well 5 but not havin’ ben in these parts 
fer putty nigh thirty year, I found it rather lonesome 
to start with, an’ I guess if it hadn’t ’a’ ben fer Polly I 
wouldn’t ’a’ stood it. But up to the time I come back 
she hadn’t never ben ten mile away f’m here in her 
hull life, an’ I couldn’t budge her. But then,” he re¬ 
marked, “while Homeville ain’t a metrop’lis, it’s some 
a different place f’m what it used to be—in some ways. 
Polly’s my sister,” he added by way of explanation. 

“Well,” said John, with rather a rueful laugh, “if it 
has taken you all that time to get used to it, the outlook 
for me is not very encouraging, I’m afraid.” 

“Wa’al,” remarked Mr. Harum, “I’m apt to speak in 
par’bles sometimes. I guess you’ll git along after a 
spell, though it mayn’t set fust-rate on your stomech 
till you git used to the diet. Say,” he said after a mo¬ 
ment, “if you’d had a couple o’ thousan’ more, do you 
think you’d ’a’ stuck to the law bus’nis?” 

“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied John, “but I am 
inclined to think not. General Wolsey told me that if 
I were very anxious to go on with it he would help me, 
but after what I told him he advised me to write to 
you.” 

“He did, did he?” 

“Yes,” said John, “and after what I had gone through 
I was not altogether sorry to come away.” 

“Wa’al,” said Mr. Harum thoughtfully, “if I was to 
lose what little I’ve got, an’ had to give up livin’ in the 
way I was used to, an’ couldn’t even keep a hoss, I c’n 
allow ’t I might be willin’ fer a change of scene to make 


20 


DAVID HARUM 


j 3 6 


a fresli start in. Yes, sir, I guess I would. Wa’al,” 
looking at his watch, “I’ve got to go now, an’ I’ll see 
ye later, mebbe. You feel like takin’ holt to-day ?” 

“Oh, yes,” said John with alacrity. 

“All right,” said Mr. Harum. “You tell Timson 
what you want, aid make him show you everythin’. 
He understands, an’ I’ve paid him for’t. He’s agreed 


to stay any time 
in reason ’t you 
want him, but 
I guess,” he 
added with a 
laugh, “’t you 
c’n pump him 
dry ’n a day or 
two. It hain’t 



rained wisdom an’ k now- 
lidge in his part o’ the 
country fer a consid’able 


David stood for a mo¬ 
ment drawing on his 
gloves, and then, looking 
at John with his character¬ 
istic chuckle, continued : 


“Allowed he’d ben 


drawin’ the hull load, did he? Wa’al, sir, the truth 
on’t is’t he never come to a hill yet, ’f ’twa’n’t more’n 
a foot high, but what I had to git out an’ push ; nor 
never struck a turn in the road but what I had to 
take him by the head an' lead him into it.” With 
which Mr. Harum put on his overcoat and cap and 
departed. 







DAVID HARUM 


*37 

Mr. Timson was leaning over the counter in animated 
controversy with a man on the outside who had evi¬ 
dently asserted or quoted (the quotation is the usual 
weapon : it has a double barb and can be wielded with 
comparative safety) something of a wounding effect, 

“No, sir,” exclaimed Chet, with a sounding slap on 
the counter, “no, sir ! The’ ain’t one word o’ truth in’t. 
I said myself, ‘I won’t stall’ it,’ I says, ‘not f’m you ner 
nobody else,’ I says, ‘an’ wliat’s more,’ says I—” The 
expression in the face of Mr. Timson’s tormentor caused 
that gentleman to break off and look around. The man 
on the outside grinned, stared at John a moment, and 
went out, and Timson turned and said, as John came 
forward, “Hello ! The old man picked ye to pieces all 
he wanted to ? ” 

“We are through for the day, I fancy,” said our friend, 
smiling, “and if you are ready to begin my lessons I am 
ready to take them. Mr. Harum told me that you 
would be good enough to show me what was necessary.” 

“All right,” said Mr. Timson readily enough, and so 
John began his first day’s work in David’s office. He 
was surprised and encouraged to find how much his 
experience in Rush & Co.’s office stood him in hand, 
and he managed to acquire in a comparatively short 
time a pretty fair comprehension of the system which 
prevailed in “Hamm’s bank,” notwithstanding the 
incessant divagations of his instructor. 

It was decided between Timson and our friend that 
on the following day the latter should undertake the 
office work under supervision, and the next morning 
John was engaged upon the preliminaries of the day’s 
business when his employer came in and seated himself 
at his desk in the back room. After a few minutes, in 


DAVID HARUM 


138 

which he was busy with his letters, he appeared in the 
doorway of the front room. He did not speak, for John 
saw him, and, responding to a backward toss of the head, 
followed him into the “parlor,” and at an intimation of 
the same silent character shut the doors. Mr. Harum 
sat down at his desk, and John stood awaiting his 
pleasure. 

“How hi ye make out yestid’y?” he asked. “Git 
anythin’ out of old tongue-tied?” pointing with his 
thumb toward the front room. 

“Oh, yes,” said John, smiling, as he recalled the un¬ 
ceasing flow of words which had enveloped Timson’s 
explanations. 

“How much longer do you think you’ll have to have 
him round ? ” asked Mr. Harum. 

“Well,” said John, “of course your customers are 
strangers to me, but so far as the routine of the office is 
concerned, I think I can manage after to-day. But I 
shall have to appeal to you rather often, for a while, 
until I get thoroughly acquainted with my work.” 

“Good fer you,” said David. “You’ve took holt a 
good sight quicker’11 I thought ye would, an’ I’ll spend 
more or less time round here fer a while, or be where 
you c’n reach me. It’s like this,” he continued : “Chet’s 
a helpless kind of critter, fer all his braggin’ an’ talk, 
an’ I ben feelin’ kind o’ wambly about turnin’ him loose 
—though the Lord knows,” he said with feeling, “’t I’ve 
had bother enough with him to kill a tree. But, any¬ 
way, I wrote to some folks I know up to Syrchester 
to git somethin’ fer him to do, an’ I got a letter to 
send him along an’ mebbe they’d give him a show. 
See?” 

“Yes, sir,” said John, “and if you are willing to take 


DAVID HA HUM 139 

the chances of my mistakes I will undertake to get on 
without him.” 

“All right,” said the banker, “we’ll call it a heat— 
and, say, don’t let on what I’ve told ye. I want to see 
how long it’ll take to git all over the village that he 
didn’t ask 110 odds o’ nobody. Hadn’t ben out o’ a job 
three days ’fore the’ was a lot o’ chances, an’ all’t he 
had to do was to take his pick out o’ the lot on ’em.” 

“Really'?” said John. 

“Yes, sir,” said David. “Some folks is gaited that 
way. Amusin’, ain’t it? Hullo, Dick ! Wa’al ? ” 

“Willis’ll give two hunderd fer the sorr’l colt,” said 
the incomer, whom John recognized as one of the 
loungers in the Eagle bar the night of his arrival. 

“E-um’m ! ” said David. “Was he speak in’ of any 
pertic’ler colt, or sorril colts in gen’ral? I hain’t got 
the only one the’ is, I s’pose.” 

Dick merely laughed. 

“Because,” continued the owner of the “sorril colt,” 
“if Steve Willis wants to lay in sorril colts at two hun- 
derd apiece, I ain’t goin’ to gainsay him, but you tell 
him that two-forty-nine ninety-nine won’t buy the one 
in my barn.” 

Dick laughed again. 

John made a move in the direction of the front room. 

“Hold on a minute,” said David. “Shake hands with 
Mr. Larrabee.” 

“Seen ye before,” said Dick, as they shook hands; 
“I was in the bar-room when ye come in the other 
night ” $ and then he laughed as at the recollection of 
something very amusing. 

John flushed a little, and said a bit stiffly, “I remem¬ 
ber you were kind enough to help about my luggage.” 


DAVID HAKUM 


140 

“Excuse me,” said Dick, conscious of the other’s man¬ 
ner. “I wa’n’t laughin’ at you, that is, not in pertic’ler. 
I couldn’t see yer face when Ame offered ye pie an’ 
doughnuts instid of beefsteak an’ fixin’s 5 I c’d only 
guess at that: but Arne’s face was enough fer me,” and 
Dick went off into another cacliinnation. 

David’s face indicated some annoyance. “Oh, shet 
up !” he exclaimed. “Ye’d keep that yawp o’ yourn 
goin’, I believe, if it was the judgment day.” 

“Wa’al,” said Dick, with a grin, “I expect the’ might 
be some fun to be got out o’ that , if a feller wa’n’t wor- 
ryin’ too much about his own skin ; an’ as fur’s I’m 
concerned—” 

Dick’s further views on the subject of that momentous 
occasion were left unexplained. A significant look in 
David’s face caused the speaker to break off and turn 
toward the door, through which came two men, the 
foremost a hulking, shambling fellow, with an expres¬ 
sion of repellent sullen ness. He came forward to within 
about ten feet of David’s desk, while his companion 
halted near the door. David eyed him in silence. 

“I got this here notice this mornin’,” said the man, 
“sayin’ ’t my note ’d be due to-morrer, an’ ’d have to 
be paid.” 

“Wa’al,” said David, with his arm over the back of 
his chair and his left hand resting on his desk, “that’s 
so, ain’t it? ” 

“Mebbe so,” was tlie fellow’s reply, “fur ’s the 
cornin' due’s concerned, but the payin’ part’s another 
matter.” 

“Was ye cal’latin’ to have it renewed ? ” asked David, 
leaning a little forward. 

“No,” said the man coolly, “I don’t know’s I want 


DAVID HARUM 


H l 

to renew it fer any pertic’ler time, an’ I guess it c’u run 
along fer a while jest as ’tis.” 

John looked at Dick Larrabee. He was watching 
David’s face with an expression of the utmost enjoy¬ 
ment. David twisted his chair a little more to the 
right and out from the desk. 

“Ye think it c’n run along, do ye ? ” he asked suavely. 
“I’m glad to have yer views on the subject. Wa’al, I 
guess it kin, too, until to-morrcP at four o’clock, an’ after 
that ye c’n settle with Lawyer Johnson or the sheriff.” 

The man uttered a disdainful laugh. “I guess it’ll 
puzzle ye some to c’lect it,” he said. 

Mr. Harum’s bushy red eyebrows met above his nose. 
“Look here, Bill Montaig,” he said, “I know more 
’bout this matter ’n ye think fer. I know’t you ben 
makin’ yer brags that ye’d fix me in this deal. You 
allowed that ye’d set up usury in the fus’ place, an’ if 
that didn’t work I’d find ye was execution-proof any¬ 
ways. That’s so, ain’t it?” 

“That’s about the size on’t,” said Montaig, putting 
his feet a little farther apart. 

David had risen from his chair. 

“Ye didn’t talk that way,” proceeded the latter, 
“when ye come whinin’ round here to git that money 
in the fus’ place, an’ as I reckon some o' the facts in 
the case has slipped out o’ yer mind since that time, I 
guess I’d better jog yer mem’ry a little.” 

It was plain from the expression of Mr. Montaig’s 
countenance that his confidence in the strength ol his 
position was not cpiite so assured as at first, but he main¬ 
tained his attitude as well as in him lay. 

“In the fus’ place,” David began his assault, “/didn’t 
lend ye the money. I borr’ed it fer ye on my indorse- 


142 


DAVID HARUM 


ment, an’ charged ye fer doin’ it, as I told ye at the 
time ; an’ another thing that ye appear to forgit is that 
ye signed a paper statin’ that yon was wuth, in good 
and available pusson’ls, free and clear, over five hun- 
derd dollars, an’ that the statement was made to me 
with the view of havin’ me indorse yer note fer one- 
fifty. Rec’lect that?” David smiled grimly at the 
look of disconcert which, in spite of himself, appeared 
in Bill’s face. 

“I don’t remember signin’ no paper,” he said 
doggedly. 

“ Jest as like as not,” remarked Mr. Ilarum. “What 
you was tliinkin’ of about that time was gittin’ that 
money.” 

“I’d like to see that paper,” said Bill, with a pretence 
of incredulity. 

“Ye’ll see it when the time conies,” asserted David, 
with an emphatic nod. He squared himself, planting 
his feet apart, and, thrusting his hands deep in his coat 
pockets, faced the discomfited yokel. 

“Do ye think, Bill Montaig,” he said, with measure¬ 
less contempt, “that I didn’t know who I was dealin’ 
with? that I didn’t know what a low-lived, roost-robbin’ 
skunk ye was? an’ didn’t know how to protect myself 
agin such an’muls as you be? Wa’al, I did, an’ don’t 
ye stop thinkin’ ’bout it—an’,” he added, shaking his 
finger at the object of his scorn, “you’ll pay that note or 
I’ll put ye where the dogs won’t bite ye ” ; and with that 
he turned on his heel and resumed his seat. 

Bill stood for a minute with a scowl of rage and defeat 
in his lowering face. 

“Got any further bus’nis with me?” inquired Mr. 

Harum. “Anythin’ more’t I c’n oblige ye about?” 



9 







The exit of Bill Montaig, 

















DAVID HARUM 


H3 


There was no answer. 

“I asked ye,” said David, raising his voice and rising 
(o his feet, “if ye had any further bus’nis with me.” 

“I dunno ’s I have,” was the sullen response. 

“All right,” said David. “That bein’ the case, an’ 
as I’ve got somethin’ to do besides wastin’ my time on 
such wuthless pups as you be, I’ll thank ye to git out. 
There’s the door,” he added, pointing to it. 

“Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho ! ” came from the throat of Dick 
Larrabee. 

This was too much for the exasperated Bill, and he 
erred (to put it mildly) in raising his arm and advanc¬ 
ing a step toward his creditor. He was not swift enough 
to take the second, however, for David, with amazing 
quickness, sprang upon him and, twisting him around, 
rushed him through the door, down the passage, and 
out of the front door, which was obligingly held open 
by an outgoing client, who took in the situation and 
gave precedence to Mr. Montaig. His companion, who 
so far had taken no part, made a motion to interfere; 
but John, who stood nearest to him, caught him by the 
collar and jerked him back, with the suggestion that it 
would be better to let the two have it out by them¬ 
selves. David came back rather breathless and very 
red in the face, but evidently in exceeding good humor. 

“Scat my—!” he exclaimed. “Hain’t had such a 
good tussle I dunno when.” 

“Bill’s considered ruther an awk’ard customer,” re¬ 
marked Dick. “I guess he hain’t had no such handlin’ 
fer quite a while.” 

“Sho ! ” exclaimed Mr. Harum. “The’ ain’t nothin’ 
to him but wind an’ meanness. Who was that feller 
with him ? ” 


21 


144 


DAVID HARUM 


“ Name’s Smith ; I believe,” replied Dick. “Guess 
Bill brought him along fer a witness, an’ I reckon he 
seen all he wanted to. M bet his neck’s achin’ some,” 
added Mr. Larrabee, with a laugh. 

“How’s that?” asked David. 

“Well, he made a move to tackle you as you was 
escortin’ Bill out, an’ Mr. Lenox, there, caught him in 
the collar an’ gin him a jerk that’d ’a’ landed him on 
his back,” said Dick, “if,” turning to John, “you hadn’t 
lielt holt of him. You putty nigh broke his neck. He 
went off—ho, ho, ho, ho, ho !—wrigglin’ it to make sure.” 

“I used more force than was necessary, I’m afraid,” 
said Billy Williams’s pupil, “but there wasn’t much 
time to calculate.” 

“Much obliged,” said David, with a nod. 

“Not at all,” protested John, laughing. “I have en¬ 
joyed a great deal this morning.” 

“It has ben ruther pleasant,” remarked David, with 
a chuckle, “but you mustn’t cal’late on havin’ such fun 
ev’ry mornin’.” 

John went into the business office, leaving the banker 
and Dick. 

“Say,” said the latter, when they were alone, “that 
young man o’ yourn’s quite a feller. He took care o’ 
that big Smith chap with one hand ; an’ say, you c’n git 
round on your pins ’bout ?s lively’s they make ’em, I 
guess. I swan ! ” he exclaimed, slapping his thigh and 
shaking with laughter, “the hull thing head-an’-shoul¬ 
dered any show I seen lately.” And then for a while 
they fell to talking of the “sorril colt” and other 
things. 


CHAPTER XV 


When John went back to the office after the noonday 
intermission it was manifest that something had hap¬ 
pened to Mr. Timson, and that the something was of a 
nature extremely gratifying to that worthy gentleman. 
He was beaming with satisfaction and rustling with 
importance. Several times during the afternoon lie 
appeared to be on the point of confiding his news, but 
in the face of the interruptions which occurred, or 
which he feared might 
check the flow of his 
communication, he 
managed to restrain 
himself till after the 
closing of the office. 

But scarcely were the shutters 
up (at the willing hands of 
Peleg Hopkins) when 
turned to John and, looking 
at him sharply, said, “Has 
Dave said anythin 7 ’bout my 
leavin’ ?” 

“He told me he 
expected you would 
stay as long as might 
be necessary to get 

me well started,” said / 

John cautiously, mindful of Mr. Harum’s injunction. 

“Jes’ like him,” declared Chet. “Jes’ like him, for 
all the world. But the fact o’ the matter is’t I’m goin’ 




DAVID HAIUJM 


146 

to-morro’. I s’pose he thought / 7 reflected Mr. Timson, 
“thet he’d ruther ye’d find it out yourself than to have 
to break it to ye, ’cause then—don’t ye see?—after I 
was gone he c’d lay the hull thing at my door.” 

“Really,” said John, “I should say that he ought to 
have told me.” 

“Wa’al,” said Chet encouragingly, “mebbe you’ll git 
along somehow, though I’m ’fraid you’ll have more or 
less trouble ; but I told Dave that, as fur’s I c’d see, 
mebbe you’d do’s well’s ’most anybody he c’d git that 
didn’t know any o’ the customers an’ hadn’t never 
done any o’ this kind o’ work before.” 

“Thank you very much,” said John. “And so you 
are off to-morrow, are you ? ” 

“Got to be,” declared Mr. Timson. “I’d ’a’ liked to 
stay with you a spell longer, but t lie’s a big concern fm 
out of town that, as soon as they heard I was at libe’ty, 
wrote for me to come right along up, an’ I s’pose I hadn’t 
ought to keep ’em waitin’.” 

“No, I should think not,” said John, “and I congratu¬ 
late you upon having located yourself so quickly.” 

“Oh !” said Mr. Timson, with ineffable complacency, 
“I hain’t give myself no worry ; I hain’t lost no sleep. 

I’ve allowed all along 
that Dave Harum ’d 
find out that he wa’n’t 
the unly man that 
needed my kind o’ 
work, an’ I hain’t 
meanin’ any disrispect 
to you when I say’t—” 

“Just so,” said John. “I quite understand. Nobody 
could expect to take just the place with him that you 





















DAVID HARUM 


l 47 

have filled. And, by the way,” he added, “as you are 
going in the morning, and I may not see you again, 
would you kindly give me the last balance-sheets of 
the two ledgers and the bill-book ? I suppose, of course, 
that they are brought down to the first of the month, 
and I shall want to have them.” 

“Oh, yes, cert’nly, of course—wa’al, I guess Dave’s 
got ’em,” replied Chet, looking considerably discon¬ 
certed, “but I’ll look ’em up in the mornin’. My train 
don’t go till ten o’clock, an’ I’ll see you ’bout any little 
last thing in the mornin’ j but I guess I’ve got to go now 
on account of a lot of things. You c’n shut up, can’t 
ye ? ” 

Whereupon Mr. Timson made his exit, and not long 
afterward David came in. By that time everything 
had been put away, the safe and vault closed, and Peleg 
had departed with the mail and his freedom for the rest 
of the day. 

“Wa’al,” said Mr. Harum, lifting himself to a seat on 
the counter, “how’ve you made out? All O. K. ?” 

“Yes,” replied John, “I think so.” 

“Where’s Chet?” 

“lie went away some few minutes ago. He said he 
had a good many things to attend to, as he was leaving- 
in the morning.” 

“E-um’m!” said David incredulously. “I guess 
’twon’t take him long to close up his matters. Did he 
leave ev’rything in good shape? Cash all right, an’ 
so on ? ” 

“I think so,” said John. “The cash is right, I am 
sure.” 

“How ’bout the books?” 

“I asked him to let me have the balance-sheets, and 


148 DAVID HARUM 

I 

he said that you must have them, but that he would 
come in in the morning and—well, what he said was 
that he would see me in the morning, and, as he put it, 
look after any little last thing.” 

“E-um’m! ” David grunted. “He won’t do no such 
a thing. We’ve seen the last of him, you bet, an 7 a 
good riddance. He’ll take the nine-o’clock to-night, 



that’s what he’ll do. Drawed his pay, I guess, didn’t 
he ? ” 

“He said he was to be paid for this month,” answered 
John, “and took sixty dollars. Was that right 1 ?” 

“Yes,” said David, nodding his head absently. 
“What was it he said about them statements 1 ?” he in¬ 
quired after a moment. 

“He said he guessed you must have them.” 

“E-um’m ! ” was David’s comment. “What’d he say 
about leavin’ ? ” 











DAVID HARUM 


149 

John laughed, and related the conversation as 
exactly as he could. 

“What hi I tell ye?” said Mr. Harum, with a short 
laugh. “Mebbe he won’t go till to-morro’, after all,” 
he remarked. “He’ll want to put in a leetle more 
time tellin’ how he was sent for in a hurry by that big 
concern fm out of town’t he’s goin’ to.” 

“Upon my word, I can’t understand it,” said John, 
“knowing that you can contradict him.” 

“Wa’al,” said David, “he’ll allow that if he gits in the 
fust word he’ll take the pole. It don’t matter anyway, 
long’s he’s gone. I guess you an’ me c’n pull the load, 
can’t we?” And he dropped down off the counter and 
started to go out. “By the way,” he said, halting a 
moment, “can’t you come in to tea at six o’clock? I 
want to make ye acquainted with Polly, an’ she’s itchin’ 
to see ye.” 

“I shall be delighted,” said John. 

“Polly,” said David, “I’ve ast the young feller to 
come to tea, but don’t you say the word * Eagle ’ to him. 
You c’n show your ign’ranee ’bout all the other kinds 
of birds an’ an’muls you 
ain’t familiar with,” said 
the unfeeling brother, “but 
leave eagles alone.” 

“What you up to now?” 
she asked, but she got no 
answer but a laugh. 

From a social point of 
view the entertainment 
could not be described as a very brilliant success. Our 
friend was tired and hungry 5 Mr. Harum was unusually 




1 5 ° 


DAVID HARUM 


taciturn; and Mrs. Bixbee, being under her brother’s 
interdict as regarded the subject which, had it been 
allowed discussion, might have opened the way, was at 
a loss for generalities. But John afterward got upon 
terms of the friendliest nature with that kindly soul. 



CHAPTER XYI 


Some weeks after John’s assumption of his duties in the 
offi ce of David Harum, Banker, that gentleman sat read¬ 
ing his New York paper in the “wing settin’-room,” 
after tea, and Aunt Polly was occupied with the hem¬ 
ming of a towel. The able editorial which David was 
perusing was strengthening his conviction that all the 
intelligence and virtue of the country were monopolized 
by the Republican' party, when his meditations were 
broken in upon by Mrs. Bixbee, who knew nothing and 
cared less about the Force Bill or the doctrine of pro¬ 
tection to American industries. 

“You hain’t said nothin’ fer quite a while about the 
bank,” she remarked. “Is Mr. Lenox gittin’ along all 
right? ” 

“Guess he’s gittin’ into condition as fast as c’d be ex¬ 
pected,” said David, between two lines of his editorial. 

“It must be awful lonesome fer him,” she observed, 
to which there was no reply. 

“Ain’t it?” she asked, after an interval. 

“Ain’t what?” asked David, looking up at her. 

“Awful lonesome,” she reiterated. 

“Guess nobody ain’t ever very lonesome when you’re 
round an’ got your breath,” was the reply. “What you 
talkin’ about?” 

“I ain’t talkin’ about you, ’t any rate,” said Mrs. 
Bixbee. “I was sayin’ it must be awful lonesome fer 
Mr. Lenox up here, where he don’t know a soul hardly, 
an’ livin’ at that hole of a tavern.” 

“I don’t see’t you’ve any cause to complain long’s he 


22 


152 


DAVID HARUM 


don’t,” said David, hoiDing that it would not come to 
his sister’s ears that he had, for reasons of his own, 
discouraged any attempt on John’s part to better his 
quarters, “an’ he hain’t ben very lonesome daytimes, I 
guess, so fur, ’thout he’s ben makin’ work fer himself to 
kill time.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Wa’al,” said David, “we found that Chet hadn’t 
done more’n to give matters a lick an’ a promise in 
’most a year. He done jest enough to keep up the day’s 
work an’ no more, an’ the upshot on’t is that John’s had 
to put in consid’able time to git things straightened out.” 

“What a shame ! ” exclaimed Aunt Polly. 

“Keeps him f’m bein’ lonesome,” remarked her 
brother, with a grin. 

“An’ he hain’t had no time to himself!” she pro¬ 
tested. “I don’t believe you’ve made up your mind 
yet whether you’re goin’ to like him, an’ I don’t believe 
he’ll stay anyway.” 

“I’ve told more’n forty-’leven times,” said Mr. 
Harum, looking up over his paper, “that I thought we 
w r as goin’ to make a hitch of it, an’ he cert’nly hain’t 
said nothin’ ’bout leavin’, an’ I guess he won’t fer a 
while, tavern or no tavern. He’s got a putty stiff upper 
lip of his own, I reckon,” David further remarked, with 
a short laugh, causing Mrs. Bixbee to look up at him 
inquiringly, which look the speaker answered with a 
nod, saying, “Me an’ him had a little go-round to-day.” 

“You hain’t had no words , hev ye?” she asked 
anxiously. 

“Wa’al, we didn’t have what ye might call words. I 
was jes’ tryin’ a little experiment with him.” 

“Humph,” she remarked, “you’re alwus tryin’ exper’- 


DAVID HARUM 


l 53 

ments on somebody, an 7 you’ll be liable to git ketclied 
at it some day.” 

“Exceptin’ on you,” said David. “You don’t tliink 
I’d try any experiments on you, do ye?” 

“Me !” slie cried. “You’re at me tlie hull endurin’ 
time, an’ you know it.” 

“Wa’al, but, Polly,” said David insinuatingly, “you 
don’t know how int’restin’ you be” 

“Glad you think so,” she declared, with a sniff and a 
toss of the head. “What you ben up to with Mi-. 
Lenox? ” 

“Oh, nothin’ much,” replied Mr. Harum, making a 
feint of resuming his reading. 

“Be ye goin’ to tell me, or—air ye too ’shamed on’t? ” 
she added, with a little laugh, which somewhat turned 
the tables on her teasing brother. 

“Wa’al, I laid out to try an’ read this paper,” he 
said, spreading it out on his lap, “but,” resignedly, “I 
guess ’tain’t no use. Do you know what a count’fit 
bill is?” he asked. 

“I dunno’s I ever see one,” she said, “but I s’pose I 
do. They’re agin the law, ain’t they?” 

“Tlie’s a number o’ things that’s agin the law,” 
remarked David dryly. 

“Wa’al?” ejaculated Mrs. Bixbee after a moment of 
waiting. 

“Wa’al,” said David, “the’ ain’t much to tell, but it’s 
plain I don’t git no peace till you git it out of me. It 
was like this : The young feller’s took holt everywhere 
else right off, but handlin’ the money bothered him 
consid’able at fust. It was slow work, an’ I c’d see it 
myself ; but he’s gittin’ the hang on’t now. Another 
thing I expected he’d run up agin was count’fits. The’ 


154 


DAVID HARUM 




ain’t so very many on ’em round nowadays, but the’ 
is now an' then one. He allowed to me that he was 
liable to get stuck at fust, an’ I reckoned he would. 
But I never said nothin’ about it, nor ast no questions 
until to-day ; an’ this afternoon I come in to look round, 
an’ I says to him, 4 What luck have you had 
with your money? Git any bad?’ I says. 
‘ Wa’al,’ he says, colorin’ up a little, ‘I don’t 
know how many I may have took 
in an’ paid out agin without 
knowin’ it,’ he says, ‘but the’ was 
a couple sent back from New 
York out o’ that package that went down last Friday.’ 

“‘What was they?’ I says. 

“‘A five an’ a ten,’ he says. 

“‘Where be they?’ I says. 

“‘They’re in the draw’ there—they’re ruther int’- 
restin’ objects of study,’ he says, kind o’ laughin’ on 
the wrong side of his mouth. 



“‘Countin’ ’em in the cash?’ I says, an’ with that he 
kind o’ reddened up agin. 

“‘No, sir,’ he says; ‘I charged ’em up to my own 
account, an’ I’ve kept ’em to compare with.’ 

“‘You hadn’t ought to done that,’ I says. 

“‘You think I ought to ’a’ put ’em in the fire at 
once ? ’ says he. 

“‘ No,’ I says, ‘that wa’n’t what I meant. Why didn’t 
you mix ’em up with the other money, an’ let ’em go 
when you was payin’ out? Anyways,’ I says, ‘you 
charge ’em up to profit an’ loss if you’re goin’ to charge 
’em to anythin’, an’ let me have ’em,’ I says. 

“‘What’ll you do with ’em?’ he says to me, kind o’ 
shuttin’ his jaws together. 



DAVID HARUM 


>55 


CU 


I’ll take care on ’em,’ I says. ‘They mayn’t be 
good enough to send down to New York,’ I says, ‘but 
they’ll go around here all right—jest as good as any 
other,’ I says, ‘long’s you keep ’em movin’.’” 

“David Harum ! ” cried Polly, who, though not quite 
comprehending some of the technicalities of detail, was 
fully alive to the turpitude of the suggestion. “I hope 
to gracious lie didn’t think you was in earnest. Why, 
s'pose they was passed around, wouldn’t somebody git 
stuck with ’em, in the long run? You know they 
would.” Mrs. Bixbee occasionally surprised her brother 
with unexpected penetration, 
but she seldom got much recog¬ 
nition of it. 

“I see by the paper,” lie re¬ 
marked, “that the’ was a man 
died in Pheladelphy one day last 
week,” which piece 
of barefaced irrel¬ 
evancy elicited no 
notice from Mrs. 

Bixbee. 

“What more did 
he say?” she de¬ 
manded. 

“Wa’al,” responded 
Mr. Harum, with a 
laugh, “he said that 
he didn’t see why I 
should be a loser by his mistakes, an’ that as fur 
as the bills was concerned they belonged to him, 
an’ with that,” said the narrator, “Mister Man 
gits ’em out of the draw’ an’ jes’ marches into 



i B Mr 











DAVID HARUM 


>56 

the back room an’ puts the dum things int’ the 
fire.” 

“He done jes’ right,” declared Aunt Polly, “an’ you 
know it, don’t ye, now? ” 

“Wa’al,” said David, “f’m his standpoint—f’m his 
standpoint, I guess he did, an’,” rubbing his chin with 
two fingers of his left hand, “it’s a putty dum good 
standpoint, too. I’ve ben lookin’,” he added reflec¬ 
tively, “fer an honest man fer quite a number 0’ years, 
an’ I guess I’ve found him; yes’m, I guess I’ve found 
him.” 

“An’ be you goin’ to let him lose that fifteen dollars ? ” 
asked the practical Polly, fixing her brother with her 
eyes. 

“Wa’al,” said David, with a short laugh, “what c’n 
I do with such an obst’nit critter ’s he is"? He jes’ 
backed into the britchin’, an’ I couldn’t do nothin’ with 
him.” 

Aunt Polly sat over her sewing for a minute or two 
without taking a stitch. “I’m sorry you done it,” she 
said at last. 

“I dunno but I did make ruther a mess of it,” ad¬ 
mitted Mr. Harum. 


CHAPTER XYII 


It was the 23d of December, and shortly after the clos¬ 
ing hour. Peleg had departed, and our friend had just 
locked the vault when David came into the office and 
around behind the counter. 

“Be you in any hurry?’ 7 he asked. 

John said he was not, whereupon Mr. Harum hitched 
himself up on to a high office stool, with his heels on the 
spindle, and leaned sideways upon the desk, while John 
stood facing him, with his left arm upon the desk. 

“John,” said David, “do ye know the Widdo’ Cul- 
lom ? ” 

“No,” said John, “but I know who she is—a tall, thin 
woman, who walks with a slight stoop and limp. I 
noticed her and asked her name, because there was 
something about her looks that attracted my atten¬ 
tion—as though at some time she might have seen 
better days.” 

“That’s the party,” said David. “She has seen better 
days, but she’s eat an’ drunk sorro’ mostly fer goin’ on 
thirty year, an’ darned little else good share o’ the time, 
I reckon.” 

“She has that appearance, certainly,” said John. 

“Yes, sir,” said David, “she’s had a putty tough time, 
the widdo’ has; an’ yet,” he proceeded after a momen¬ 
tary pause, “the’ was a time when the Culloms was 
some o’ the king-pins o’ this hull region. They used 
to own quarter o’ the county, an’ they lived in the big 
house up on the hill where Doc Hays lives now. That 
was considered to be the finest place anywheres round 


DAVID HARUM 


158 

here in them days. I used to think the Capitol to 
Washington must be somethin’ like the Cullom house, 
an’ that Billy P. (folks used to call him Billy P. ’cause 
his father’s name was William an’ his was William 
Parker), an’ that Billy P. ’d jest’s like’s not be Presi¬ 
dent. I’ve changed my mind some on the subject of 
Presidents since I was a boy.” 

Here Mr. Harum turned on his stool, put his right 
hand into his sack-coat pocket, extracted therefrom 
part of a paper of “Maple Dew,” and replenished his 
left cheek with an ample wad of “fine cut.” John took 
advantage of the break to head off what he had reason 
to fear might turn into a lengthy digression from the 
matter in hand by saying, “I beg pardon, but how does 
it happen that Mrs. Cullom is in such circumstances'? 
Has the family all died out ? ” 

“Wa’al,” said David, “they’re most on ’em dead—all 
on ’em, in fact, except the widdo’s son Charley, but as 
fur ’s the family’s concerned, it more’n died out—it 
gin out! ’D ye ever hear of Jim Wheton’s calf? 
Wa’al, Jim brought three or four veals into town one 
spring to sell. Dick Larrabee used to peddle meat them 
days. Dick looked ’em over, an’ says,‘Look here, Jim,’ 
lie says, ‘I guess ye got a “deakin ” in that lot,’ he says. 
‘I dunno what ye mean,’ says Jim. ‘Yes, ye do, goll 
darn ye ! ’ says Dick, ‘yes, ye do. Ye didn’t never kill 
that calf, an’ ye know it. That calf died, that’s what 
that calf done. Come, now, own up,’ he says. ‘Wa’al,’ 
says Jim, ‘I didn’t MU it, an’ it didn’t die nuther—it jes’ 
kind o’ gin out .’ ” 

John joined in the laugh witli which the narrator re¬ 
warded his own effort, and David went on : “Yes, sir, 
they jes’ petered out. Old Billy, Billy P.’s father, 


DAVID HARUM 


l S9 

inherited all the prop’ty—never done a stroke o’ work 
in liis life. He had a collide education, went to Eu¬ 
rope, an’ all that, an 1 before he was fifty year old he 
hardly ever come near the old place after he was g rowed 
up. The land was all farmed out on shares, an’ his 
farmers mostly bamboozled him the hull time. He got 
consid’able income, of course, but as things went along 
and they found out how slack he was, they kept bitin’ 
off bigger chunks all the time, an’ sometimes he didn’t 
git even the core. But all the time when he wanted 
money—an’ he wanted it putty often, I tell ye—the 
easiest way was to stick on a morgige j an’ after a spell 
it got so’t he’d have to give a morgige to pay the 
int’rist on the other morgiges.” 

“But,” said John, “was there nothing to the estate 
but land ? ” 

“Oh, yes,” said David, “old Billy’s father left him 
some consid’able pusson’l, but after that was gone he 
went into the morgige bus’nis, as I tell ye. He lived 
mostly up to Syrchester and around, an’ when he got 
married he bought a place in Syrchester and lived 
there till Billy P. was about twelve or thirteen year 
old an’ he was about fifty. By that time he’d got ’bout 
to the end of his rope, an’ the’ wa’n’t nothin’ for it but 
to come back here to Homeville an’ make the most o’ 
what the’ was left—an’ that’s what he done, let alone 
that he didn’t make the most on’t to any pertic’ler ex¬ 
tent. Mis’ Cullom, his wife, wa’n’t no help to him. 
She was a city woman an’ didn’t take to the country 
noway, but when she died it broke old Billy up wuss ’n 
ever. She peaked an’ pined, an’ died when Billy P. 
was about fifteen or so. Wa’al, Billy P. an’ the old man 

wrastled along somehow, an’ the boy went to collige fer 
23 


i6o 


DAVID HARUM 


a year or so. How they ever got along ’s they did I 
dunno. The’ was a story that some far-off relation left 
old Billy some money, an’ I guess that an’ what they 
got off’n what farms was left carried ’em along till Billy 
P. was twenty-five or so, an’ then he up an’ got mar¬ 
ried. That was the crownin’ stroke,” remarked David. 
“She was one o’ the village girls—respectable folks, 
more’n ordinary good-lookin’ an’ high-steppin’, an’ had 
had some schoolin’. But the old man was prouder ’n 
a cock-turkey, an’ thought nobody wa’n’t quite good 
enough fer Billy P., an’ all along kind o’ reckoned that 
he’d marry some money an’ git a new start. But when 
he got married—on the quiet, you know, ’cause he 
knowed the old man would kick—wa’al, that killed the 
trick, an’ the old man into the bargain. It took the 
gumption all out of him, an’ he didn’t live a year. 
Wa’al, sir, it was curious, but, ’s I was told, putty much 
the hull village sided with the old man. The Culloms 
was kind o’ kings in them days, an’ folks wa’n’t so one- 
man’s-good’s-anotkerisli as they be now. They thought 
Billy P. done wrong, though they didn’t have nothin’ to 
say ’gainst the girl, neither—an’ she’s very much re¬ 
spected, Mis’ Cullom is; an’ as fur’s I’m concerned, I’ve 
alwus guessed she kept Billy P. goin’ full as long’s any 
one could. But ’twa’n’t no use—that is to say, the 
sure thing come to pass. He had a nom’nal title to a 
good deal o’ prop’ty, but the equity in most on’t, if it 
had ben to be put up, wa’n’t enough to pay fer the 
papers. You see, the’ ain’t never ben no real cash 
value in farm prop’ty in these parts. The’ ain’t ben 
hardly a dozen changes in farm titles, ’cept by inlier’t- 
ance or foreclosure, in thirty years. So Billy P. didn’t 
make no effort. Int’rist’s one o’ them things that keeps 


DAVID HARUM 


161 


right on, nights an’ Sundays. He jest had the deeds 
made out an’ handed ’em over when the time came to 
settle. The’ was some village lots, though, that was 
clear, that fetched him in some money from time to 
time until they was all gone but one, an’ that’s the one 
Mis’ Cullom lives on now. It was consid’able more’n 
a lot—in fact, a putty sizable place. She thought the 
sun rose an’ set where Billy P. was, but she took a 
crotchit in her head, an’ wouldn’t ever sign no papers 
ter that, an’ lucky fer him, too. The’ was a house on to 
it, an’ he had a roof over his head anyway when he 
died, six or seven years after he married, an’ left her 
with a boy to raise. How she got along all them years 
till Charley got big enough to help, I swan ! I don’t 

know. She took in sewin’ and waskin’, an’ went out to 

• * 

cook an’ nurse, an’ all that, but I reckon the’ was now 
an’ then times when they didn’t overload their stomechs 
much, nor have to open the winders to cool off. But 
she held on to that prop’ty of hern like a pup to a root. 
It was putty well out when Billy P. died, but the vil¬ 
lage has growed up to it. The’s some good lots could 
be cut out on’-t, an’ it backs up to the river where the 
current’s enough to make a mighty good power fer a 
’lectric light. I know some fellers that are talkin’ of 
startin’ a plant here, an’ it ain’t out o’ sight that they’d 
pay a good price fer the river-front, an’ enough land to 
build on. Fact on’t is, it’s got to be a putty valu’ble 
piece o’ prop’ty, more’n she cal’lates on, I reckon.” 

Here Mr. Harum paused, pinching his chin with 
thumb and index-finger, and mumbling his tobacco. 
John, who had listened with more attention than in¬ 
terest-wondering the while as to what the narrative 
was leading up to—thought something might properly 


162 


DAVID HARUM 


be expected of him to show that he had followed it, 
and said, “So Mrs. Cullom has kept this last piece clear, 
has she ? ” 

“No,” said David, bringing down his right hand up.on 
tlie desk with emphasis, “that’s jes’ what she hain’t 
done, an’ that’s how I come to tell ye somethin’ of the 
story, an’ more on’t ’n you’ve eared about bearin', 
mebbe.” 

“Not at all,” John protested. “I have been very 
much interested.” 

“You have, have you?” said Mr. Hamm. “Wa’al, I 
got somethin’ I want ye to do. Day after to-morro’ ’s 
Chris’mus, an’ I want ye to drop Mis’ Cullom a line, 
somethin’ like this: that Mr. Harum told ye to say 
that that morgige he holds, havin’ ben past due fer some 
time, an’ no int’rist havin’ ben paid fer, let me see, 
more’ll a year, he wants to close the matter up, an’ 
he’ll see her Chris’mus mornin’ at the bank at nine 
o’clock, he havin’ more time on that day; but that, as 
fur as he can see, the bus’nis won’t take very long— 
somethin’ like that von; understand?” 

“Very well, sir,” said John, hoping that his employer 
would not see in his face the disgust and repugnance he 
felt as he surmised what a scheme was on foot, and re¬ 
called what he had heard of Hamm's hard and un¬ 
scrupulous ways—though he had to admit that this, 
excepting perhaps the episode of the counterfeit money, 
was the first revelation to him personally. But this 
seemed very bad indeed. 

“All right,” said David cheerfully. “I s’pose it won’t 
take you long to find out what’s in your stockin’, an’ if 
you hain’t nothin’ else to do Chris’mus mornin’ I’d like 
to have you open the office and stay round a spell till I 


DAVID HARUM 


l6 3 

git through with Mis’ Cullom. Mebbe the’ ’ll be some 
papers to fill out or wituiss or somethin’ ; an’ have that 
skeezieks of a boy make up the fires so’st the place’ll be 
warm.” 

“Very good, sir,” said John, hoping that the inter¬ 
view was at an end. 

But the elder man sat for some minutes, apparently 
in a brown study, and occasionally a smile of sardonic 
cunning wrinkled his face. At last he said : “I’ve told 
ye so much that I may as well tell ye how I come by 
that morgige. ’Twon’t take but a minute, an’ then you 
can run an’ play,” he added with a chuckle. 

“I trust I have not betrayed any impatience,” said 
John, and instantly conscious of his infelicitous expres¬ 
sion, added hastily, “I have really been very much 
interested.” 

“Oh, no,” was the reply, “you hain’t betrayed none, 
but I know old fellers like me gen’ally tell a thing 
twice over while they’re at it. Wa’al,” he went on, “it 
was like this : After Charley Cullom got to be some 
grown he helped to keep the pot a-bilin’, ’n’ they got 
on some better. ’Bout seven year ago, though, he up 
an’ got married, an’ then the fat ketehed fire. Finely 
he allowed that if he had some money he’d go West ’n’ 
take up some land, ’n’ git along like pussly ’n a flower- 
gard’n. He ambitioned that if his mother’d raise a 
thousan’ dollars on her place he’d be sure to take care 
of the int’rist, an’ prob’ly pay off the princ’ple in al¬ 
most no time. Wa’al, she done it, an’ off he went. 
She didn’t come to me fer the money, because—I dunno 
— at any rate she didn’t, but got it of ’Zeke Swinney. 

“Wa’al, it turned out jest’s any fool might’ve pre- 
dilictid, fer after the fust year, when I reckon he paid 


DAVID HARUM 


164 

it out of the thousand Charley never paid no int’rist. 
The second year lie was jes 7 gettin 7 goin 7 , an 7 the next 
year he lost a hoss jes 7 7 s he was cal’latin’ to pay, an 7 
the next year the grasshoppers smote him, 7 n 7 so on 5 an 7 
the outcome was that at the end of five years, when the 
morgige had one year to run, Cliarley’d paid one year, 
an 7 she 7 d paid one, an 7 she stood to owe three years 7 
int’rist. How old Swinney come to hold off so was that 
she used to pay the cuss ten dollars or so ev’ry six 
months 7 n 7 git no credit fer it, an 7 no receipt an 7 no 
witniss, 7 n 7 he knowed the prop’ty was improvin’ all 
the time. He may have had another reason, but at any 
rate he let her run, and got the shave reg’lar. But at 
the time I’m tellin 7 you about he’d begun to cut up, an 7 
allowed that if she didn’t settle up the int’rist he’d 
foreclose, an 7 I got wind on’t, an 7 I run across her one 
day an 7 got to talkin’ with her, an 7 she gin me the hull 
narration. ‘How much do you owe the old critter? 7 I 
says. ‘A hunderd an 7 eighty dollars,’ she says, ‘an 7 
where I’m goin 7 to git it, 7 she says, ‘the Lord only 
knows. 7 ‘An 7 He won’t tell ye, I reckon, 7 I says. 
Wa’al, of course I’d known that Swinney had a mor¬ 
gige, because it was a matter of record, an 7 I knowed 
him well enough to give a guess what his game was 
goin 7 to be ; an 7 more’n that, I'd had my eye on that 
piece an' parcel, an' I figured that he wa’n’t any likelier 
a citizen 7 n I was.” 

“Yes,” said John to himself, “where the carcass is 
the vultures are gathered together.” 

“‘Wa’al, 7 I says to her, after we’d had a little more 
talk, ‘s’posin 7 you come round to my place to-morro’ 
bout ’leven o’clock, an 7 mebbe we c’n cipher this thing 
out. I don’t say positive that we kin,’ I says, ‘but 


DAVID HARUM 




mebbe, mebbe.’ So that afternoon I sent over to the 
county-seat an’ got a description an’ had a second mor- 
gige drawed up fer two hunderd dollars, an’ Mis’ Cullom 
signed it mighty quick. I had the morgige made one 
day after date, 

’cause, as I 
said to her, 
it was in the 
nature of a 
temporary 
loan, but she 
was so tick¬ 
led she’d 


‘ Now,’ 


have signed 
’most any¬ 
thin’ at that 
pertic’lertime. 

I says to her, ‘you go 
an’ settle with old 
Step-an’-fetch-it, but 
don’t you say a word 
where you got the 
money,’ I says. ‘ Don’t ye let on nothin’—stretch that 
conscience o’ yourn, if nec’sary,’ I says, ‘an’ be pertic’- 
ler, if he asks you if Dave Harum give ye the money, 
you jes’ say, “No, he didn’t.” That won’t be no lie,’ I 
says, ‘because I ain’t giving it to ye,’ I says. Wa’al, she 
done as I told her. Of course Swinney suspicioned fust 
off that I was mixed up in it, but she stood him off so 
fair an’ square that he didn’t know jes’ what to think; 
but his claws was cut fer a spell, anyway. 

“Wa’al, things went on fer a while, till I made up 
my mind that I ought to relieve Swinney of some of 













i66 


DAVID HARUM 


his anxieties about worldly bus’nis, an’ I dropped in on 
him one mornin’ an’ passed the time o’ day, an’ after 
we’d eased up our minds on the subjects of each other’s 
health an’ such like, I says, ‘ Yon hold a morgige on 
the Widdo’ Cullom’s place, don’t ye?’ Of course he 
couldn’t say nothin’ but yes. ‘Does she keep up the 
int’rist all right?’ I says. ‘I don’t want to be pokin’ 
my nose into your bus’nis,’ I says, ‘an’ don’t tell me 
nothin’ you don’t want to.’ Wa’al, he knowed Dave 
Harum was Dave Harum, an’ that he might ’s well 
speak it out, an’ he says, ‘Wa’al, she didn’t pay nothin’ 
fer a good while, but last time she forked over the hull 
amount. But I hain’t no notion,’ he says, ‘that she’ll 
come to time agin.’ ‘An’ s’posin’ she don’t,’ I says, 
‘you'll take the prop’ty, won’t ye?’ ‘Don’t see 

no other way,’ he says, 
an’ lookin’ up quick, 

‘ unless you overbid me,’ 
he says. ‘No,’ I says, 
‘I ain’t buyin’ no real 
estate jes’ now ; but the 
thing I come in fer,’ I 
says, ‘leavin’ out the 
pleasure of havin’ a 
talk with you, was to sav 
that I’d take that mor¬ 
gige off’n your hands.’ 

“Wa’al, sir—he, he, 
he, he ! Scat my— ! 
At that he looked at me fer a minute with his jaw on his 
neck, an’ then he hunched himself’n’ drawed in his neck 
like a mud-turtle. ‘No,’ he says, ‘ I ain’t sufferin’ fer the 
money, an’ I guess I’ll keep the morgige. It’s putty 





DAVID HA RUM 167 

« 

near due now, but mebbe I’ll let it rail a spell. I guess 
the security’s good fer it.’ ‘ Yes/ I says, ‘I reckon you’ll 
let it run long enough fer the widdo’ to pay the taxes 
on’t once more, anyhow; I guess the secur’ty’s good 
enough to take that resk j but how ’bout my secur’ty ? ’ 
I says. ‘What d’you mean?’ he says. ‘I mean,’ says 
I, ‘that I’ve got a second morgige on that prop’ty, an’ 
J begin to tremble fer my secur’ty. You’ve jes’ told 
me,’ I says, ‘that you’re goin’ to foreclose, an’ I cal’late 
to protect myself, an’ I don’t cal’late,’ I says, ‘to have to 
go an’ bid on that prop’ty, an’ put in a lot more money 
to save my investment, unless I’m ’bleeged to—not 
much! an’ you can jes’ sign that morgige over to me, 
an’ the sooner the quicker,’ I says.” 

David brought his hand down on his thigh with a 
vigorous slap, the fellow of the one which, John could 
imagine, had emphasized his demand upon Swin- 
ney. The story, to which he had at first listened 
with polite patience merely, he had found more 
interesting as it went on, and, excusing himself, he 
brought up a stool, and mounting it, said, “And what 
did Swinney say to that?” Mr. Harum emitted a 
gurgling chuckle, yawned his quid out of his mouth, 
tossing it over his shoulder in the general direction 
of the waste-basket, and bit oft the end of a cigar 
which he found by slapping his waistcoat pockets. 
John got down and fetched him a match, which 
he scratched in the vicinity of his hip pocket, 
lighted his cigar (John declining to join him 011 some 
plausible pretext, having on a previous occasion ac¬ 
cepted one of the brand), and after rolling it around 
with his lips and tongue to the effect that the lighted 

end described sundry eccentric curves, located it firmly 
24 


i68 


DAVID HA RUM 

I 

with an upward angle in the left-hand corner of his 
mouth, gave it a couple of vigorous puffs, and replied 
to John’s question : 

“Wa’al, ’Zeke Swinney was a perfesser of religion 
some years ago, an’ mebbe he is now, but what he said 
to me on this pertic’ler occasion was that he’d see me in 
hell fust, an’ then he wouldn’t. 

“‘Wa’al,’ I says, ‘ mebbe you won’t, mebbe you will; 
it’s alwus a pleasure to meet ye,’ I says, ‘but in that 
case this morgige bus’nis ’ll be a question fer our ex¬ 
ecutors,’ I says, ‘fer you don’t never foreclose that mor¬ 
gige, an’ don’t you fergit it,’ I says. 

“‘Oh, you’d like to git holt o’ that prop’ty yourself. 
I see what you’re up to,’ lie says. 

“‘Look a-here, ’Zeke Swinney,’ I says, ‘I’ve got an 
int’rist in that prop’ty, an’ I propose to p’tect it. You’re 
goin’ to sign that morgige over to me, or I’ll foreclose 
and surrygate ye,’ I says, ‘unless you allow to bid in 
the prop’ty, in which case we’ll see whose weasel-skin’s 
the longest. But I guess it won’t come to that,’ I says. 
‘You kin take your choice,’ I says. ‘Whether I want 
to git holt o’ that prop’ty myself ain’t neither here nor 
there. Mebbe I do, an’ mebbe I don’t. But anyways,’ I 
says, ( you don’t git it, nor wouldn’t ever, fer if I can’t 
make you sign over, I’ll either do what I said or I’ll 
back the widdo’ in a defense fer usury. Put that in 
your pipe an’ smoke it,’ I says. 

“‘What do you mean?’ he says, gittin’ half out his 
chair. 

“‘I mean this,’ I says: ‘that the fust six months 
the widdo’ couldn’t pay she gin you ten dollars to 
hold off, an’ the next time she gin you fifteen, an’ 
that you’ve bled her fer shaves to the tune of sixty- 


DAVID HARUM 169 



odd dollars in three years, an 7 then got your int’rist in 
full.’ 

“That riz him clean out of his chair,” said David. 
“‘She can’t prove it,’ he says, shakin’ his fist in the air. 

“‘Oh, ho, ho ! ’ I says, tippin’ my chair back agin the 
wall. ‘ If Mis’ Cullom was to swear how an’ where she 
paid you the money, givin’ chapter an’ verse, an’ 
showin’ her own mem’randums even, an’ I was to swear 
that when I twitted you with gittin’ it you 
didn’t deny it, but only said that she 
couldn’t prove it, how long do you think 


it ’d take a Freeland County jury to find agin ye? 
I allow, ’Zeke Swinney,’ I says, ‘that you wa’n’t born 
yestid’y, but you ain’t so old as you look, not by a dum 
sight! ’ An’ then how I did laugh ! 

Wa’al,” said David, as he got down off the stool and 
stretched himself, yawning, “I guess I’ve yarned it 





















DAVID HARUM 


170 

enough fer one day. Don’t fergit to send Mis’ Cullom 
that notice, an’ make it up an’ up. I’m goin’ to git 
the thing off my mind this trip.” 

“Very well, sir,” said John, “but let me ask, did 
Swinney assign the mortgage without any trouble?” 

“O Lord ! yes,” was the reply. “The’ wa’n’t nothin’ 
else fer him to do. I had another twist on him that I 
hain’t mentioned. But he put up a great show of doin’ 

it to obleege me. Wa’al, I 
thanked him an’ so on, an’ 
when we’d got through I ast 
him if he wouldn’t step over 
to the Eagle an’ take some¬ 
thin’, an’ he looked kind o’ shocked an’ said he never 
drinked nothin’; it was ’gin his princ’ples, he said. 
Ho, ho, ho, ho ! Scat my— ! Princ’ples ! ” And John 
heard him chuckling to himself all the way out of the 
office. 



CHAPTER XVIII 


Considering John’s relations with David Hamm, it 
was natural that he should wish to think as well of him 
as possible, and he had not (or thought he had not) 
allowed his mind to be influenced by the disparaging 
remarks and insinuations which had been made to him, 
or in his presence, concerning his employer. He had 
made up his mind to form his opinion upon his own 
experience with the man, and so far it had not only been 
pleasant but favorable, and far from justifying the half- 
jeering, half-malicious talk that had come to his ears. 
It had been made manifest to him, it was true, that 
David was capable of a sharp bargain in certain lines, 
but it seemed to him that it was more for the pleasure 
of matching his wits against another’s than for any gain 
involved. Mr. Harum was an experienced and expert 
horseman, who delighted above all things in dealing in 
and trading horses 5 and John soon discovered that, in 
that community at least, to get the best of a “hoss 
trade” by almost any means was considered a venial 
sin, if a sin at all, and the standards of ordinary busi¬ 
ness probity were not expected to govern those trans¬ 
actions. 

David had said to him once, when he suspected 
that John’s ideas might have sustained something 
of a shock, “A boss trade ain’t like anythin’ else. 
A feller may be straighter ’11 a string in ev’rythin’ 
else, an’ never tell the truth—that is, the hull 
truth—about a boss. I trade bosses with boss- 
traders. They all think they know as much as I do, 


' 7 2 


DAVID HARUJVI 


an’ I dunno but what they do. They hain’t learnt no 

diff’rent, anyway, an’ they’ve had chances enough. It 

a feller come to me that didn’t think he knowed any- 

«/ 

thin’ about a boss, an’ wanted to buy on the square, 
he’d git, fur’s I knew, square treatment. At any rate, 
I’d tell him all ’t I knew. But when one o’ them 
smart Alecks comes along and cal’kites to do up ol’ 
Dave, why, he’s got to take his chances, that’s all. An’ 
mind ye,” asserted David, shaking his forefinger im¬ 
pressively, “ it ain’t only them fellers. I’ve ben wuss 
stuck two three time by church-members in good 
standin’ than anybody I ever denied with. Take old 
Deakin Perkins. He’s a terrible feller fer church 
bus’nis ; c’n pray an’ psalm-sing to beat the Jews, an’ in 
speritual matters c’n read his title clear the hull time ; 
but when it comes to boss-tradin’ you got to git up 
very early in the mornin’ or he’ll skin the eye-teeth 
out of ye. Yes, sir! Scat my— ! I believe the old 
critter makes bosses ! But the deakin,” added David, 
“ he, he, he, he ! the deakin hain’t hardly spoke to 
me fer some consid’able time, the deakin hain’t. He, 
he, he ! 

“ Another thing,” he went on. “ The’ ain’t no 
gamble like a boss. You may think you know him 
through an’ through, an’ fust thing you know he’ll be 
cuttin’ up a lot o’ didos right out o’ nothin’. It stands to 
reason that sometimes you let a boss go all on the square 
—as you know him—an’ the feller that gits him don’t 
know how to hitch him or treat him, an’ he acts like a 
diff’rent boss, an’ the feller allows you swindled him. 
You see, bosses gits used to places an’ ways to a certain 
extent, an’ when they’re changed, why, they’re apt to act 
diff’rent. Hosses don’t know but dreadful little, reallv. 

/ *7 


DAVID HARUM 


l 73 


Talk about boss sense—wa’al, the’ ain’t no seek 
thing.” 

Thus spoke David on the subject of his favorite 
pursuit and pastime, and John thought then that he 
could understand and condone some things he had 
seen and heard, at which at first he was inclined to 
look askance. But this matter of the Widow Cullom’s 
was a different thing, and as he realized that he was 
expected to play a part, though a small one, in it, 
his heart sank within him that he had so far cast his 
fortunes upon the good will of a man who could plan 
and carry out so heartless and cruel an undertaking as 
that which had been revealed to him that afternoon. 
He spent the evening in his room trying to read, but 
the widow’s affairs persistently thrust themselves upon 
his thoughts. All the unpleasant stories he had heard 
of David came to his mind, and he remembered with 
misgiving some things which at the time had seemed 
regular and right enough, but which took 
on a different color in the light in which 
he found himself recalling them. He 
debated with himself whether he should 
not decline to send Mrs. Cullom the notice 
as he had been instructed, and left it 
an open question when he went to bed. 


He wakened some¬ 
what earlier than 
usual, to find that the 
thermometer had gone 
up and the barometer 

down. The air was full of a steady downpour, half 
snow, half rain, about the most disheartening combina¬ 
tion which the worst climate in the world—that of cen- 



•i|it 






>74 


DAVID HARUM 


tral New York—can furnish. He passed rather a busy 
day in the office, in an atmosphere redolent of the un¬ 
savory odors raised by the proximity of wet boots and 
garments to the big cylinder stove outside the counter, 
a compound of stale smells from kitchen and stable. 

After the bank closed he dispatched Peleg Hopkins, 
the office boy, with the note for Mrs. Cullom. He had 
abandoned his half-formed intention to revolt, but had 
made the note not only as little peremptory as was com¬ 
patible with a clear intimation of its purport as he 
understood it, but had yielded to a natural impulse in 
beginning it with an expression of personal regret—a 

blunder which cost him no little 
chagrin in the outcome. 

Peleg Hopkins grumbled audibly 
when he was requested to build 
the fires on Christmas day, and 
expressed his opinion 
that “if there warn’t 
Bible agin workin’ on 
Chris’mus, the’ ’d ort ter 
be” ; but when John 
opened the door of the bank 
that morning he found the tem¬ 
perature in comfortable contrast 
to the outside air. The weather 
had changed again, and a blind- 
snow-storm, accompanied by a buffeting gale 
from the northwest, made it almost impossible to see a 
path and to keep it. In the central part of the town 
some tentative efforts had been made to open walks, 
but these were apparent only as slight and tortuous 



mg 






DAVID HARUM 


l 75 

depressions in the depths of snow. In the outskirts 
the unfortunate pedestrian had to wade to the 
knees. 

As John went behind the counter his eye was at once 
caught by a small parcel lying on his desk, of white 
note-paper, tied with a cotton string, which he found 
to be addressed, “Mr. John Lenox, Esq., Present/’ and 
as he took it up it seemed heavy for its size. 

Opening it, he found a tiny stocking, knit of white 
wool, to which was pinned a piece of paper with the 
legend : “A Merry Christmas from Aunt Polly.” Out 
of the stocking fell a packet fastened with a rubber 
strap. Inside were five ten-dollar gold pieces, and 
a slii> of paper on which was written : “A. Merry 
Christmas from Your Friend David Harum.” For 
a moment John’s face burned, and there was a curious 
smarting of the eyelids as he held the little stock¬ 
ing and its contents in his hand. Surely the hand that 
had written “Your Friend” on that scrap of paper 
could not be the hand of an oppressor of widows and 
orphans. “This,” said John to himself, “is what he 
meant when he ‘sujyposed it wouldn’t take me long to 
find out what was in my stocking.’ ” 

The door opened, and a blast and whirl of wind and 
snow rushed in, ushering the tall, bent form of the 
Widow Cullom. The drive of the wind was so strong 
that John vaulted over the low cash counter to push 
the door shut again. The poor woman was white with 
snow from the front of her old worsted hood to the 
bottom of her ragged skirt. 

“You are Mrs. Cullom 1 ?” said John. “Wait a mo- 
25 


>7 6 


DAVID HARUM 


ment till I brush off the snow, and then come to the 
fire in the back room. Mr. Haruin will be in directly, 


I expect.” 

“Be I much late!” she asked. “I made ’s much 
haste ’s I could. It don’t appear to me ? s if I ever see 
a blusterin’er day, ? n’ I ain’t as strong as I used to be. 
Seemed as if I never would git here.” 

“Oh, no,” said John, as he established her before the 
glowing grate of the Franklin stove in the bank parlor, 

“not at all. 


Mr. 11a rum 
has not come 
in himself 
yet. Shall 
you mind if 
I excuse my¬ 
self a mo¬ 
ment while 
you make 
yourself as 
comfortable 
as possible?” 
She did 
not apparently hear him. 
She was trembling from head 
to foot with cold and fatigue 
and nervous excitement. 
Her dress was soaked to the 
knees, and as she sat down 
and put up her feet to the 
fire John saw a bit of a thin cotton stocking and her 
deplorable shoes, almost in a state of pulp. A snow- 
obliterated path led from the back door of the office to 
















DAVID HA RUM 


*77 


David’s house, and John snatched Ills hat and started for 
il on a run. As lie stamped oft* some of the snow on the 
veranda the door was opened for him by Mrs. Bixbee. 

‘‘Lord sakes!” she exclaimed. “What on earth be 
you cavortin’ round for such a mornin’ ’s this without 
no overcoat, an’ on a dead run? What’s the matter?” 

“Nothing serious,” he answered, “but I’m in a great 
hurry. Old Mrs. Cullom has walked up from her house 
lo the office, and she is wet through and almost per¬ 
ished. I thought you’d send her some dry shoes and 
stockings, and an old shawl or blanket to keep her wet 
skirt off her knees, and a drop of whisky or something. 
She’s all of a tremble, and I’m afraid she will have a 
chill.” 

“Certain ! certain !” said the kind creature ; and she 
bustled out of the room, returning in a minute or two 
with an armful of comforts. “There’s a pair of bed¬ 
room slips lined with lamb’s-wool, an’ a pair of woolen 
stockin’s, an’ a blanket shawl. This here petticut, 
’tain’t what ye’d call bran’-new, but it’s warm an’ 
comf’table, an’ I don’t believe she’s got much of any¬ 
thin’ on ’ceptin’ her dress; an’ I’ll git ye the whisky, 
but ’’—here she looked deprecatingly at John—“it ain’t 
gen’ally known ’t we keep the stuff in the house. I 
don’t know as it’s right, but though David don’t hardly 
ever touch it he will have it in the house. ’ 

“Oh,” said John, laughing, “you may trust my dis¬ 
cretion. and we’ll swear Mrs. Cullom to secrecy.” 

“Wa’al, all right,” said Mrs. Bixbee, joining in the 
laugh as she brought the bottle ; “jest a minute till I 
make a passel of the things to keep the snow out. 
There, now, I guess you’re fixed, an’ you kin hurry 
back ’fore she ketches a chill.” 


»78 


DAVID HARUM 


“Thanks very much,” said John as he started away. 
“I have something to say to yon besides 1 Merry Christ¬ 
mas,’ but I must wait till another time.” 

When John got back to the office David had just 
preceded him. 

“Wa’al, wa’al,” he was saying, “but you be in a 
putty consid’able state. Hullo, John ! what you got 
there ? Wa’al, you air the stuff! Slips, blanket shawl, 
petticut, stocking—wa’al, you an’ Polly ben puttin’ your 
heads together, I guess. What’s that? Whisky! 
Wa’al, scat my— ! I didn’t s’pose wild bosses would 
have drawed it out o’ Polly to let on the’ was any in the 
house, much less to fetch it out. Jes’ the thing ! Oh, 
yes, ye are, Mis’ Cullom—jes’ a mouthful with water,” 
taking the glass from John ; “jes’ a spoonful to git your 
blood a-goin’, an’ then Mr. Lenox an’ me ’ll go into the 
front room while you make yourself comf’table.” 

“Consarn it all! ” exclaimed Mr. Hamm, as they stood 
leaning against the teller’s counter, facing the street, 
“I didn’t cal’late to have Mis 1 Cullom hoof it up here 
the way she done. When I see what kind of a day it 
was I went out to the barn to have the cutter hitched 
an’ send for her, an’ I found ev’rythin’ topsy-turvy. 
That dum’d uneasy sorril colt had got cast in the stall, 
an’ I ben fussin’ with him ever since. I clean forgot 
all ’bout Mis’ Cullom till jes’ now.” 

“Is the colt much injured?” John asked. 

“Wa’al, he won’t trot a twenty gait in some time, I 
reckon,” replied David. “He’s wrenched his shoulder 
some, an’ mebbe strained his inside. Don’t seem to 
take no int’rist in his feed, an’ that’s a bad sign. Con- 
sarn a boss, anyhow ! If they’re wutli anythin’ they’re 
more bother ’n a teethin’ baby. Alwus some dum 




DAVID HARUM 


i 7 9 

thing ailin’ ’em 5 an’ I took consid’able stock in that 
colt, too,” he added regretfully, “an’ I could ’a’ got 
putty near what I was askin’ fer him last week, an’ 
putty near what he was wutli; an’ I’ve noticed that 
most gen’ally alwus when I let a good offer go like that, 
some cussed thing happens to the boss. It ain’t a bad 
idee in the boss bus’nis, anyway, to be willin’ to let the 
other feller make a dollar once ’n a while.” 

After that aphorism they waited in silence for a few 
minutes, and then David called out over his shoulder, 
“How be you gettin’ along, Mis’ Cullom?” 

“I guess I’m fixed,” she answered, and David walked 
slowly back into the parlor, leaving John in the front 
office. He was annoyed to realize that, in the bustle 
over Mrs. Cullom and what followed, he had forgotten 
to acknowledge the Christmas gift, but, hoping that 
Mr. Ilarum had been equally oblivious, promised him¬ 
self to repair the omission later on. He would have 

* 

preferred to go out and leave the two to settle their 
affair without witness or hearer, but his employer, who, 
as he had found, usually had a reason for his actions, 
had explicitly requested him to remain, and he had no 
choice. He perched himself upon one of the office 
stools and composed himself to await the conclusion of 
the affair. 


CHAPTER XTX 


Mrs. Cullom was sitting at one corner of the fire, and 
David drew a chair opposite to her. 

“Feelin’ all right now ? Whisky hain’t made ye liable 
to no disorderly conduct, has it?” he asked, with a 
laugh. 

“Yes, thank you,” was I lie reply, “the warm things 
are real comfortin’, ’id I guess I hain’t had lickei 
enough to make me want to throw things. You 
got a kind streak in ye, Dave Hamm, if ye did 
send me this here note ; but I s’pose ye know yer 
own bus’nis,” she added, with a sigh of resignation. 
“I ben fearin’ fer a good while ’t I couldn’t hold 
on t’ that prop’ty, an’ I don’t know but what you 
might’s well git it as ’Zeke Swinney, though I ben 
hopin’ ’gainst hope that Charley’d be able to do more 
’n he has.” 

“Let’s see the note,” said David curtly. “H’m, 
humph — 1 regret to say that I have been instructed by 
Mr. Harum’—wa’al, h’m’m, cal’lated to clear his own 
skirts anyway—h’m’m—Dnust lie closed up without 
further delay.’” (John’s eye caught the little white 
stocking which still lay on his desk.) “Wa’al, yes, 
that’s about what I told Mr. Lenox to say, fur’s the 
bus’nis part’s concerned ; 1 might ’a’ done my own re- 
grettin’ if I’d wrote the note myself.” (John said 
something to himself.) “ ’Tain’t the pleasantest thing 
in the world fer ye, I allow, but then, you see, bus’nis 
is bus’nis.” 


DAVID HARUM 


181 

John heard David clear his throat, and there was a 
hiss in the open fire. Mrs. Cullom was silent, and 
David resumed : 

“You see, Mis’ Cullom, it’s like this : I ben think in’ 
of this matter fer a good while. That place ain’t ben 
no real good to ye sence the first year ye signed that 
morgige. You hain’t scurcely more’n made ends meet, 
let alone the int’rist, an’ it’s ben simply a question o’ 
time, an’ who’d git the prop’ty in the long run, 
fer some years. I reckoned, same as you did, that 
Charley’d mebbe come to the front; but he hain’t 
done it, an’ ’tain’t likely he ever will. Charley’s 
a likely ’nough boy some ways, but he hain’t got 
much ‘git there’ in his make-up—not more’n enough 
fer one, anyhow, I reckon. That’s about the size on’t, 
ain’t it?” 

Mrs. Cullom murmured a feeble admission that she 
was “ ’fraid it was.” 

“Wa’al,” resumed Mr. Harum, “I see how things 
was goin’, an’ I see that, unless I played euchre, ’Zeke 
Swinney’d git 
that prop’ty, 
an’ whether I 
wanted it my¬ 
self or not, I 
didn’t cal’late 
he sh’d git it, anyway. He put a spoke in my wheel 
once, an’ I hain’t forgot it. But that hain’t neither 
here nor there. Wa’al,” after a short pause, “you 
know I helped ye pull the thing along on the chance, 
as ye may say, that you an’ your son’d somehow make 
a go on’t.” 

“You ben very kind, so fur,” said the widow faintly. 



182 


DAVID HARUM 


“Don’t ye say that, don’t ye say that/’ protested 
David. “ ’Twa’n’t no kindness. It was jes’bus’nis. I 
wa’n’t takin’ no chances, an’ I s’pose I might let the 
thing run a spell longer if I c’d see any use in’t. But 
the’ ain’t, an’ so I ast ye to come up this mornin’ so’t 
we c’d settle the thing up without no fuss, nor trouble, 
nor lawyer’s fees, nor nothin’. I’ve got the papers all 
drawed, an’ John—Mr. Lenox—here to take the ac- 
knowlidgments. You hain’t no objection to windin’ 
the thing up this mornin’, have ye*?” 

“I s’pose I’ll have to do whatever you say,” replied 
the poor woman in a tone of hopeless discouragement, 
“an’ I might as well be killed to once as to die by inch 
pieces.” 

“All right, then,” said David cheerfully, ignoring her 
lethal suggestion, “but before we git down to bus’nis 
an’ signin’ papers, an’ in order to set myself in as fair 
a light’s I can in the matter, I want to tell ye a little 
story.” 

“I hain’t no objection’s I know of,” acquiesced the 
widow graciously. 

“All right,” said David 5 “I won't preach more’n 
about up to the sixthly. How’d you feel if I was to 
light up a cigar? I hain’t much of a hand at a yarn, 
an’ if I git stuck I c’n puff a spell. Thank ye. Wa’al, 
Mis’ Cullom, you used to know somethin’ about my 
folks. I was raised on Buxton Hill. The’ was nine on 
us, an 1 I was the youngest o’ the lot. My father farmed 
a piece of about forty to fifty acres, an 1 had a small 
shop where he done, odd times, small jobs of tinkerin’ 
fer the neighbors when the’ was anythin’ to do. My 
mother was his second, an’ I was the only child of that 
marriage, lie married agin when I was about two 



Mis’ Cullom, I want to tell ye a little story.’ 





























DAVID HARUM 


^3 

year old, an 7 how I ever got raised’s more’n I c’n tell 
ye. My sister Polly was ’sponsible more’n any one, I 
guess, an’ the only one o’ the whole lot that ever gin 
me a decent word. Small farmin’ ain’t cal’lated to 
fetch out the best traits of human nature—an’ keep 
’em out—an’ it seems to me sometimes that when the 
old man wa’n’t cuffin’ my ears he was lickin’ me with a 
rawhide or a strap. Fur’s that was concerned, all his 
boys used to ketch it putty reg’lar till they got too big. 
One on ’em up an’ licked him one night, an’ lit out 
next day. I s’pose the old man’s disposition was sp’iled 
by what some feller said farmin’ was, ‘workin’ all day 
an’ doin’ chores all night,’ an’ larrupin’ me an’ all the 
rest on us was about all the enjoyment he got. My 
brothers an’ sisters—’ceptin’ of Polly—was putty nigh 
as bad in respect of cuffs an’ such like y an’ my step- 
marm was, on the hull, the wust of all. She hadn’t no 
childern of her own, an’ it appeared ’s if I was jes’ 
pizen to her. ’Twa’n’t so much slappin’ an’ cuffin’ 
with her as ’twas tongue. She c’d say things that’d 
jes’ raise a blister like pizen-ivy. I s’pose I was about 
as ord’nary, no-account-lookin’, red headed, freckled 
little cuss as ye ever see, an’ slinkin’ in my manners. 
The air of our home circle wa’n’t cal’lated to raise 
heroes in. 

U I got three four years’ schoolin’, an’ made out to 
read an’ write an’ cipher up to long division ’fore I got 
through, but after I got to be six year old, school or no 
school, I had to work reg’lar at anything I had strength 
fer, an’ more too. Chores before school an’ after school, 
an’ a two-mile walk to git there. As fur’s clo’es was 
concerned, any ol’ thing that ’d hang together was 
good enough fer me ; but by the time the older boys 
26 


DAVID HARUM 


184 


liad outgrowed their duds, an’ they was passed 011 to 
me, the’ wa’n’t much left on ’em. A pair of old cow¬ 
hide boots that leaked in more snow an’ water ’n they 
kept out, an’ a couple pairs of woolen socks that was 
putty much all darns, was expected to see me through 
the winter, an’ I went barefoot f’m the time the snow 
was off the ground till it flew agin in the fall. The’ 
wa’n’t but two seasons o’ the year with me—them of 
chilblains an’ stun-bruises.” 

The speaker paused and stared for a moment into the 
comfortable glow of the tire, and then, discovering to 
his apparent surprise that his cigar had gone out, 
lighted it from a coal picked out with 
the tongs. 

“Farmin’ ’s a hard life,” remarked 
Mrs. Cullom, with an air of being ex¬ 
pected to make some contribution to the 
conversation. 

“An’ yit, as it seems to me as I look 
back on’t,” David resumed pensively, 
“the wust on’t was that nobody ever gin 
me a kind word, ’cept Polly. I s’pose I 
got kind o’ used to bein’ cold an’ tired, 
dressin’ in a snowdrift where it blowed 
into the attic, an’ goin’ out to fodder cat¬ 
tle ’fore sun-up, pickin’ up stun in the 
blazin’ sun, an’ doin’ all the odd jobs my 
father set me to, an’ the older ones shirked onto me : that 
was the reg’lar order o’ things : bid I remember I never 
did git used to never pleasin’ nobody. ’Course I didn’t 
expect nothin’ f’m my stepmarm, an’ the only way I ever 
knowed I’d done my stent, fur’s father was concerned, 
was that he didn’t say nothin’. But sometimes the 










DAVID HARUM 



older ones ’d git settin’ round, talkin’ an’ laughin’, 
havin’ popcorn an’ apples, an’ that, an’ I’d kind o’ sidle 
up, wantin’ to join ’em, an’ some on ’em’d say, AVliat 
you doin’ here? time you was in bed,’ an’ give me a 
shove or a cuff. Yes, ma’am,” looking up at Mrs. Cul- 
lom, “the wust on’t was that I was kind o’ sc-airt the 
hull time. Once in a while Polly’d give me a mossel 
o’ comfort, but Polly wa’n’t but little older’n me, an’ 
bein’ the youngest girl, was ehored ’most to death 
herself.” 

It had stopped snowing, and though the wind still 
came in gusty blasts, whirling the drift against the 
windows, a wintry gleam of sunshine came in and 
touched the widow’s wrinkled face. 

“ It’s amazin’ how much trouble an’ sorrer the’ is in 
the world, an’ how soon it begins,” she remarked, mov¬ 
ing a little to avoid the sunlight. “I hain’t never ben 
able to reconcile how many good things the’ be, an’ 
how little most on us gits o’ them. I hain’t ben to 
meetin’ fer a long spell, ’cause I hain’t had no fit elo’es, 
but I remember most of the preachin’ I’ve set under 
either dwelt on the wrath to come, or else on the Lord’s 
doin’ all things well, an’ providin’. I hope I ain’t no 
wickeder than the gen’ral run, but it's putty hard to 
liev faith in the Lord’s providin’ when you hain’t got 
nothin’ in the house but corn meal, an’ none too much 
o’ that.” 

“That’s so, Mis’ Cullom, that’s so,” affirmed David. 
“I don’t blame ye a mite. 4 Doubts assail, an* ott 
prevail,’ as the hymn-book says, an’ I reckon it’s a sight 
easier to have faith on meat an’ potatoes ’n it is on 
corn-meal mush. Wa’al, as I was sayin’—I hope I ain’t 
tirin’ ye with my goin’s on?” 


i86 


DAVID HARUM 


“No,” said Mrs. Cullom, “I’m engaged to hear ye, 
but nobody’d suppose, to see ye now, that ye was such 
a f’lorn little critter as you make out.” 

“It’s jest as I’m tellin’ ye, an’ more also, as the Bible 
says,” returned David, and then, rather more impres¬ 
sively, as if he were leading up to his conclusion, “it 
come along to a time when I was ’twixt thirteen an’ 
fourteen. The’ was a cirkis billed to show down here 
in Homeville, an’ ev’ry barn an’ shed fer miles around 
had pictures stuck onto ’em of el’pkants, an’ rhinoce¬ 
roses, an’ ev’ry animul that went into the ark ; an’ girls 
ridin’ bareback an’ jumpin’ through hoops, an’ fellers 
ridin’ bareback an’ turnin’ summersets, an’ doin’ turn¬ 
overs on swings; an’ clowns gettin’ hoss-whipped, an’ 
ev’ry kind of a thing that could be pictered out; an’ 
how the’ was to be a grand percession at ten o’clock, 
’ith golden chariots, an’ scripteral allegories, an’ the 
hull bus’nis ; an’ the gran’ performance at two o’clock — 
admission twenty-five cents, children under twelve, et 
cetery an’ so forth. AVa’al, I hadn’t no more idee o’ 
goin’ to that cirkis ’n I had o’ flyin’ to the moon ; but 
the night before the show somethin’ waked me ’bout 
twelve o’clock. I don’t know how ’twas. I’d .ben 
helpin’ mend fence all day, an’ gen’ally I never knowed 
nothin’ after my head struck the bed till mornin’. 
But that night, anyhow, somethin’ waked me, an’ I 
went an’ looked out the windo’, an’ there was the hull 
thing goin’ by the house. The’ was more or less moon, 
an’ I see the el’pliant, an’ the big wagins—the drivers 
kind o’ noddin’ over the dash-boards—an’ the chariots 
with canvas covers—I don’t know how many of ’em¬ 
ail’ the cages of the tigers an’ lions, an’ all. Wa’al, I 
got up the next mornin’ at sun-up an’ done my chores ; 


DAVID HARUM 


187 


an’ after breakfust I set off fer the ten-acre lot where I 
was mendin’ fence. The ten-acre was the farthest off 
of any, Homeville way, an’ I had my dinner in a tin 
pail so’t I needn’t lose no time go in’ home at noon, an’, 
as luck would have it, the’ wa’n’t nobody with me that 
mo rain’. Wa’al, I got down to the lot an’ set to work ; 
but somehow I couldn’t git that show out o’ my head 
nohow. As I said, I hadn’t no more notion of goin’ to 


that cirkis ’11 


I had of kingdom come. 


I’d never had 


V V 

La*. 


two shillin’ of my own in my hull life. But the more 
I thought on’t the uneasier I got. Somethin’ seemed 
pullin’ an’ haulin’ at me, an’ finely I gin in. I allowed 
I’d see that percession anyway, if it took a leg, an’ 
mebbe I c’d git back ’itliout nobody missin’ me. ’T any 
rate, I’d take the chances of a lickin’ jest once 
—fer that’s what it meant—an’ I up an’ put 
fer the village lickity-cut. I done them 
four mile lively, I c’n tell ye, an’ the stun- 
bruises never hurt me once. 

“When I got down to the village it 
seemed to me as if the hull population of 
Freeland County was there. I’d never 
seen so many folks together in my 
life, an’ fer a spell it seemed to me 
as if ev’rybody was a-lookin’ 
at me an’ sayin’, 1 That’s old 




Hamm’s boy Dave, playin’ hook¬ 
ey,’ an’ I sneaked round dreadin’ 
somebody’d give me away ; but 
I finely found that nobody wa’n’t 
payin’ any attention to me ; they was there to see the 
show, an’ one red headed boy more or less wa’n’t no 
pertic’ler account. Wa’al, putty soon the percession 



DAVID HA RUM 


188 

hove in sight ; an’ the’ was a reg’lar stampede among 
the boys, an’ when it got by, I run an’ ketched up with 
it agin, an’ walked alongside the el’phant, tin pail an’ 
all, till they fetched up inside the tent. Then I went 
off to one side—it must ’a’ ben about ’leven or half- 
past—an’ eat my dinner (I had a devourin’ appetite), 
an’ thought I’d jes’ walk round a spell, an’ then light 
out fer home. But the’ was so many things to see an’ 
hear—all the side-show pictures of Fat Women, an’ 
Livin’ Skelitons, an’ Wild Women of Madygasker, 
an’ Wild Men of Borneo, an’ snakes windin’ round 
women’s necks; hand-orgins, fellers that played the 
’cordion an’ mouth-pipes an’ drum an’ cymbals all to 
once, an’ such like—that I fergot all about the time, 
an’ the ten-acre lot, an’ the stun fence; an’ fust 1 
knowed, the folks was makin’ fer the ticket-wagin, an’ 
the band begun to play inside the tent. Be I taxin’ 
your patience over the limit!” said David, breaking 
off in his story and addressing Mrs. Cullom more 
directly. 

“No, I guess not,” she replied; “I was jes’ thinkin’ 
of a circus I went to once,” she added, with an audible 
sigh. 

“Wa’al,” said David, taking a last farewell of the 
end of his cigar, which he threw into the grate, “mebbe 
what’s coinin’ ’ll int’rist ye more’n the rest on’l has. 
I was standin’ gawpin’ round, list’nin’ to the band an’ 
watch in’ the folks git their tickets, when all of a suddin 
I felt a twitch at my hair—it had a way of workin’ out 
of the holes in my old chip straw hat—an’ somebody 
says to me, ‘Wa’al, sonny, what you thinkin’ off’ lie 
says. I looked up, an’ who do you s’pose it was? It 
was Billy P. Cullom ! 1 knowed who he was, fer I’d 


DAVID HARUM 



seen him before, but of course he didn’t know me. 
Yes, ma’am, it was Billy P., an’ wa’n’t he rigged out 
to kill ! ” 



The speaker paused and looked into the fire, smiling. 
The woman started forward, facing him, and clasping 
her hands, cried, “My 
husband ! What ’d 
he have on?” 

“ Wa’al,” said David 
slowly and reminis¬ 
cently, “near’s I c’n 
remember, he had on 
a blue broadcloth 
claw-hammer coat 
with flat gilt buttons, 
an’ a double-breasted 
plaid velvet vest, 
an’ pearl-gray pants, 
strapped down over 
his boots, which was 
of shinv leather, an’ 
a high pointed collar 
an’ blue stock 
with a pin in -j 
it (I remember 
wonderin’ if it. 
c’d be real gold), an’ a yeller-white plug beaver hat.” 

At the description of each article of attire Mrs. Cul- 
loni nodded her head, with her eyes fixed on David’s 
face, and as he concluded she broke out breathlessly : 
“Oh, yes ! Oh, yes ! David, he wore them very same 
clo’es, an’ he took me to that very same show that very 
same night!” There was in her face a look almost of 




DAVID HARUM 


190 

awe, as if a sight of her long-buried past youth had 
been shown to her from a coffin. 

Neither spoke for a moment or two, and it was the 
widow who broke the silence. As David had conjec¬ 
tured, she was interested at last, and sat leaning ior- 
ward with her hands clasped in her lap. 

“Well,” she exclaimed, “ain’t ye goin’ on? What 
did he say to ye?” 

“Cert’nly, cert’nly,” responded David; “I’ll tell ye 
near’s I c’n remember, an’ I c’n remember putty near. 
As I told ye, I felt a twitch at my hair, an’ he said, 
‘What be you thinkin’ about, sonny?’ I looked up at 
him, an’ looked away quick. ‘I dunno,’ I says, diggin’ 
my big toe into the dust j an’ then, I dunno how I got 
the spunk to, for I was shyer ’n a rat, 1 Guess I was 
thinkin’ ’bout mendin’ that fence up in the ten-acre 
lot’s much’s anythin’,’ I says. 

“‘Ain’t you goin’ to the cirkis?’ he says. 

“‘I hain’t got no money to go to cirkises,’ I says, 
rubbin’ the dusty toes o’ one foot over t’other, Dior 
nothin’ else,’ I says. 

“‘Wa’al,’ he says, ‘why don’t you crawl under the 
canvas ? ’ 

“That kind o’ riled me, shy’s I was. ‘I don’t crawl 
under no canvases,’ I says. ‘If I can’t go in same ’s 
other folks, I’ll stay out,’ I says, lookin’ square at him 
fer the fust time. He wa’n’t exac’ly smilin’ but the’ 
was a look in his eyes that was the next thing to 
it.” 

“Lordy me!” sighed Mrs. Cullom, as if to herself. 
“How well I can remember that look—jest as if he was 
laughin’ at ye, an’ wa’n’t laughin’ at ye, an’ his arm 
around your neck ! ” 


DAVID HARUM 


191 

David nodded in reminiscent sympathy, and rubbed 
his bald poll with the back of his hand. 

“Wa’aH” interjected the widow. 

“Wa’al,” said David, resuming, “lie says to me ? 
1 Would you like to go to the cirkis?’ an’ with that it 
occurred to me that. I did want to go to that cirkis 
more’n anythin’ I ever wanted to before—nor since, it 
seems to me. But I tell ye the truth, I was so far f’m 
expectin’ to go’t I really hadn’t knowed I wanted to. 
I looked at him, an’ then down agin, an’ began ten¬ 
derin’ up a stun-bruise on one heel agin the other in¬ 
step, an’ all I says was, bein’ so dum’d shy, ‘I dunno,’ 
I says. But I guess he seen in my face what my feel in’s 
was, fer he kind o’ laughed, an’ pulled out half a dol¬ 
lar an’ says : ‘D’you think you could git a couple o’ 
tickits in that crowd ? If you kin, I think I’ll go my¬ 
self, but I don’t want to git my boots all dust,’ he says. 
I allowed I c’d try ; an’ I guess them bare feet o’ mine 
tore up the dust some gettin’ over to the wagin. 
Wa’al, I had another scare gettin’ the tickits, fer fear 
some one that knowed me’d see me with a half a dollar, 
an’ think I must ’a’ stole the money. But I got ’em, 
an’ carried ’em back to him, an’ he took ’em an’ put 
’em in his vest pocket, an’ handed me a ten-cent piece, 
an’ says, ‘Mebbe you’ll want somethin’ in the way of 
refreshments fer yourself, an’ mebbe the el’phant,’ he 
says, an’ walked off toward the tent; an’ I stood stun- 
still, lookin’ after him. He got off about a rod or so 
an’ stopped an’ looked back. ‘ Ain’t you cornin’ ? ’ he 
says. 

“‘Be I goin’ with you V I says. 

“‘Why not*?’ he says, ‘’nless you’d ruther go alone/ 
an’ he put his finger an’ thumb into his vest pocket. 

27 


l 9 2 


DAVID HARUM 


Wa’al, ma’am, I looked at him a minute, with his shiny 
hat an’ boots, an’ tine clo’es, an’ gold pin, an’ thought 
of my ragged ol’ shirt, an’ cotton pants, an’ ol’ chip hat 
with the brim ’most gone, an’ my tin pail an’ all. ‘I 
ain’t tit to,’ I says, ready to cry j an’ — wa’al, he jes’ 
laughed an’ says, ‘Nonsense,’ he says, ‘come along. A 
man needn’t be ashamed of his workin’ clo’es,’ he says ; 
an’ I’m dum’d if he didn’t take holt of my hand, an’ 
in we went that way together.” 

“How like him that was ! ” said the widow softly. 

“Yes, ma’am, yes, ma’am, I reckon it was,” said 
David, nodding. 

“Wa’al,” he went on after a little pause, “I was ready 
to sink into the ground with shyniss at fust, but that 
wore off some after a little, an’ we two seen the hull 
show, I tell ye. We walked round I he cages, an’ we 
fed the el’phant—that is, he bought the stuff an’ I fed 
him. I ’member—he, lie, he!—’t he says, ‘Mind you 
git the right end,’ he says, an’ then we got a couple o’ 
seats, an’ the doin’s begun.” 


CHAPTER XX 


The widow was looking at David with shining eyes 
and devouring liis words. All the years of trouble and 
sorrow and privation were wiped out, and she was back 
in the days of her girlhood. Ah, yes ! how well she re¬ 
membered him as he looked that very day—so hand¬ 
some, so splendidly dressed, so debonair 5 and how 
proud she had been to sit by his side that night, ob¬ 
served and envied of all the village girls. 

“I ain’t goin’ to go over the hull show,” proceeded 
David, “well’s I remember it. The’ didn’t nothin’ git 
away from me that afternoon, an’ once I come near to 
stickin’ a piece o’ gingerbread into my ear ’stid o’ my 
mouth. I had my ten-cent piece that Billy P. give me, 
but he wouldn’t let me buy nothin’; an’ when the gin¬ 
gerbread man come along he says, ‘Air ye hungry, 
Dave?’ (I’d told him my name.) ‘Air ye hungry?’ 
Wa’al, I was a growin’ boy, an’ I was hungry putty 
much all the time. Pte bought two big squares an’ gin 
me one, an’ when I’d swallered it, he says, ‘Guess you 
better tackle this one too,’ he says; ‘I’ve dined.’ I 
didn’t exac’ly know what ‘dined’ meant, but—he, he, 
he, he !—I tackled it,” and David smacked his lips in 
memory. 

“Wa’al,” he went on, “we done the hull program my : 
gingerbread, lemonade —pink lemonade, an’ he took 
some o’ that—popcorn, peanuts, pep’mint candy, cin’- 
mun candy—scat my— ! an’ he payin’ fer ev’rythin’; 
I thought he was jes’ made o’ money ! An’ I remem¬ 
ber how we talked about all the doin’s; the ridin’, an’ 


i 9 4 


DAVID HARUM 



jumpin’, an’ summersettin’, an’ all—fer he’d got all the 
shyniss out of me fer the time—an’ once I looked up at 
him, an’ he looked down at me with that curious look 
in his eyes an’ put his hand on my shoulder. Wa’al, 
now, I tell ye, I had a queer, crinkly feelin’ go up an’ 

down my back, an’ I 
like to up an’ cried.” 

“Dave,” said the 
widow, “I kin see you 
two as if you was settin’ 
there front of me. He 
was alwus like that. 
Oh, my! Oh, my! 
David,” she added sol¬ 
emnly, while two tears 
rolled slowly down her 
wrinkled face,“we lived 


■ 


■r 


liusban’ an 
seven year, 


never give 


me 


together, 
wife, fer 
an 7 lie 

a cross word.” 

“I don’t doubt it a mos 
sel,” said David simply 
leaning over and pokin 
the lire, which operation 
kept his face out of her 
sight and was prolonged 
rather unduly. Finally he straightened up, and blow¬ 
ing his nose as if it were a trumpet, said : 

“Wa’al, the cirkis finely come to an end, an’ the 
crowd hustled to git out’s if they was afraid the tent’d 
come down on ’em. I got kind o’ mixed up in ’em, an’ 



DAVID HARUM 


l 9 S 

somebody tried to git my tin pail, or I thought he did, 
an’ the upshot was that I lost sight o’ Billy P., an’ 
couldn’t make out to ketch a glimpse of him nowhere. 
An’ then I kind o’ come down to earth, kercliug! It 
was five o’clock, an’ I had bettei’n four mile to walk, 
mostly up hill, an’ if I knowed anything ’bout the old 
man—an’ I thought I did— I had the all-firedist lickin’ 
ahead of me ’t I’d ever got, an’ that was say in’ a good 
deal. But, boy ’s I was, I had grit enough to allow 
’twas wuth it, an’ off I put.” 

“Did he lick ye much?” inquired Mrs. Cullom 
anxiously. 

“Wa’al,” replied David, “he done his best. He was 
lay in’ fer me when I struck the front gate—I knowed 
it wa’n’t no use to try the back door—an’ he took me 
by the ear—’most pulled it off—an’ marched me off to 
the barn shed without a word. I never see him so mad. 
Seemed like he couldn’t speak fer a while, but finely 
he says,‘ Where you ben ail day?’ 

“‘Down t’ the village,’ I says. 

“‘What you ben up to down there?’ he says. 

“‘Went to the cirkis,’ I says, thinkin’ I might’s well 
make a clean breast on’t. 

“‘Where’d you git the money?’ he says. 

“‘Mr. Cullom took me,’ I says. 

“‘You lie!’ he says. ‘You stole the money some- 
wheres, an’ I’ll trounce it out of ye, if I kill ye ! ’ he says. 

“Wa’al,” said David, twisting his shoulders in recol¬ 
lection, “I won’t harrer up your feelin’s. ’S I told you, 
he done his best. I was willin’ to quit long ’fore he 
was. Fact was, he overdone it a little, an’ he had to 
throw water in my face ’fore he got through$ an’ he 


DAVID HARUM 


196 

done that as thorough as the other thing. I was some¬ 
thin’ like a chickin jest out o’ the cistern. I crawled 
off to bed the best I could, but I didn’t lay on my back 
fer a good spell, I c’n tell ye.” 

“You poor little critter!” exclaimed Mrs. Cullom 
sympathetically. “You poor little critter ! ” 

“’Twas niore’n wuth it, Mis’ Cullom,” said David 
emphatically. “I’d had the most enj’y’ble day, I 
might say the only enj’y’ble day, ’t I’d ever had in my 
hull life, an’ I liain’t never fergot it. I got over the 
lickin’ in course of time, but I’ve ben enj’yin’ that 
cirkis fer forty year. The’ wa’n’t but one thing to 
hender, an’ that’s this : that I hain’t never ben able to 
remember—an’ to this day I lay awake nights tryin’ 
to—that I said ‘Thank ye’ to Billv F., an’ I never seen 
him after that day.” 

“How’s that?” asked Mrs. Cullom. 

“ Wa’al,” was the reply, “that day was the turnin’- 
point with me. The next night I lit out with what 
duds I c’d git together, an’ as much grub’s I could pack 
in that tin pail; an’ the next time I see the old house 
on Buxton Hill the’ hadn’t ben no Hamms in it fer 
years.” 

Here David rose from his chair, yawned and stretched 
himself, and stood with his back to the fire. The widow 
looked 11x1 anxiously into his face. “Is that all?” she 
asked after a while. 

“Wa’al, it is an’ it ain’t. I’ve got through yarnin’ 
about Dave Hamm, at any rate, an’ mebbe we’d better 
have a little confab on your matters, seein’ ’t I’ve got 
you ’way up here such a mornin’ ’s this. I gen’ally do 
bus’nis fust an’ talkin’ afterward,” he added, “but I 
kind o’ got to goin’ an’ kept 011 this time.” 


DAVID HARUM 


l 97 



He put his hand into the breast pocket of his coat 
and took out three papers, which he shuffled in review 
as if to verify their identity, and then held them in one 
hand, tapping them softly upon the palm of the other, 
as if at a loss how to begin. The widow sat with her 
eyes fastened upon the papers, 
trembling with nervous appre¬ 
hension. Presently he 
broke the silence. ^ 


“ About this 
here morgige o’ 
yourn,” he said, 
“I sent ye word 
that I wanted to 
close the matter 


The’ ain’t no time 
as the say in’ is.” 


up, an’ seein’ ’t 
you’re here 
an’ come fer 
that pur¬ 
pose, I 
guess we’d 
better 
make a job on’t. 
like the present 

“I s’pose it’ll hev to be as you say,” said the widow 
in a shaking voice. 

“Mis’ Cullom,” said David solemnly, “you know, an’ 
I know, that I’ve got the repitation of bein’ a hard, 
graspin’, schemin’ man. Mebbe I be. Mebbe I’ve ben 
hard done by all my hull life, an’ have had to be; an’ 
mebbe, now’t I’ve got ahead some, it’s got to be second 
nature, an’ I can’t seem to help it. ‘Bus’nis is bus’nis’ 
ain’t part of the golden rule, I allow, but the way it 









DAVID HARUM 


198 

gen 7 ally runs, fur ’s I’ve found out, is, ‘Do unto the 
other feller the way he’d like to do unto you, an 7 do it 
fust. 7 But if you want to keep this thing a-runnin 7 as 
it’s goin 7 on now fer a spell longer, say one year, or two, 
or even three, you may, only I 7 ve got somethin 7 to say 
to ye ’fore ye elect. 77 

“Wa’al,” said the poor woman, “I expect it 7 d only 
he pilin’ up wrath agin the day o’ wrath. I can’t pay 
the int’rist now without starvin’, an 7 I hain’t got no 
one to bid in the prop’ty fer me if it was to be sold.” 

“Mis’ Cullom,” said David, “I said I’d got somethin’ 
more to tell ye, an 7 if, when I git through, you don’t 
think I’ve treated you right, includin’ this mornin’s 
confab, I hope you’ll fergive me. It’s this, an’ I’m the 
only person livin’ that’s knowin’ to it, an’ in fact I may 
say that I’m the only person that ever was really 
knowin’ to it. It was before you was married, an’ I’m 
sure he never told ye, fer I don’t doubt he fergot all 
about it, but your husband, Billy P. Cullom that was, 
made a small investment once on a time—yes, ma’am, 
he did—an’ in his kind of careless way it jes’ slipped his 
mind. The amount of cap’tal he put in wa’n’t large, 
but the rate of int’rist was uncommon high. Now, he 
never drawed no dividends on’t, an’ they’ve ben ’cumu¬ 
latin’ fer forty year, more or less, at compound int’rist.” 

The widow started forward as if to rise from her seat. 
David put his hand out gently and said, “Jest a minute, 
Mis’ Cullom, jest a minute, till I git through. Part o’ 
that cap’tal,” he resumed, “consistin’ of a quarter an’ 
some odd cents, was invested in the cirkis bus’nis, an’ 
the rest on’t—the cap’tal, an’ all the cash cap’tal that 
I started in bus’nis with—was the ten cents your hus¬ 
band give me that day, an’ here,” said David, striking 


DAVID HARUM 


KJ 9 

the papers in his left hand with the back of his right, 
“here is the dividends! This here second morgige, not 
bein’ on record, may jest as well go onto the lire—it’s 
gettin’ low—an’ here’s a satisfaction piece, which I’m 
goin’ to execute now, that’ll clear the thousan’ dollar 
one. Come in here, John,” he called out. 

The widow stared at David for a moment speechless, 
but as the significance of his words dawned upon her the 
blood flushed darkly in her face. She sprang to her 
feet and, throwing up her arms, cried out: “My Lord ! 
My Lord! Dave! Dave Harum ! Is it true?—tell 
me it’s true ! You ain’t foolin’ me, air ye, Dave ? You 
wouldn’t fool a poor old woman that never done ye no 
harm, nor said a mean word agin ye, would ye? Is it 
true, an’ is my place clear? an’ I don’t owe nobody any¬ 
thin’—I mean, no money? Tell it agin! Oh, tell it 
agin ! Oh, Dave ! it’s too good to be true ! Oh, oh ! 
Oh, my! an’ here I be cryin’ like a great baby, an’, an’ ” 
—fumbling in her pocket—“I do believe I hain’t got 
no hank’chif. Oh, thank ye,” to John; “I’ll do it up 
an’ send it back to-morrer. Oh, what made ye do it, 
Dave ? ” 

“Set right down an’ take it easy, Mis’ Cullom,” said 
Dave soothingly, putting his hands on her shoulders 
and gently pushing her back into her chair. “Set right 
down an’ take it easy. Yes,” to John, “I acknowledge 
that I signed that.” 

He turned to the widow, who sat wiping her eyes 
with John’s handkerchief. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, “it’s as true as anythin’ kin 
be. I wouldn’t no more fool ye—ye know I wouldn’t, 
don’t ye?—than I’d jerk a hoss,” he asseverated. 
“Your place is clear now, an’ by this time to-morro’ 
28 


200 


DAVID HARUM 


the’ won’t be the, scratch of a pen agin it. I’ll send 
the satisfaction over fer record fust thing in the 
mornin’.” 

“But, Dave,” protested the widow, “Is’poseye know 
what you’re doin’?” 

“Yes,” he interposed, “I cal’late I do, putty near. 
You ast me why I done it, an’ I’ll tell ye if ye want to 
know. I’m payin’ off an old score, an’ gettin’ off cheap, 
too. That’s what I’m doin’ ! I thought III hinted up 
to it putty plain, seein’ ’t I’ve talked till my jaws ache j 
but I’ll sum it up to ye if you like.” 

He stood with his feet aggressively wide apart, one 
hand in his trousers pocket, and holding in the other 
the “morgige,” which he waved from time to time in 
emphasis. 

“You c’n estimate, I reckon,” he began, “what kind 
of a bringin’ up I had, an’ what a poor, mis’able, God- 
fersaken, scairt-to-deatli little forlorn critter I was—put 
upon, an’snubbed, an’jawed at till I’d come to believe 
myself—what was rubbed into me the hull time—that I 
was the most all-round no-account animul that was 
ever made out o’ dust, an’ wa’n’t ever likely to be no 
diff’rent. Lookin’ back, it seems to me that —except in’ 
of Polly—I never had a kind word said to me, nor a 
day’s fun. Your husband, Billy P. Cullom, was the fust 
man that ever treated me human up to that time. He 
give me the only enj’y’ble time ’t I'd ever had, an’ I 
don’t know’t anythin’’s ever equaled it since. He 
spent money on me, an' he give me money to spend— 
that had never had a cent to call my own; an\ Mis’ 
Cullom, he took me by the hand an’ lie talked to me, 
an’ he gin me the fust notion ’t I’d ever had that 
mebbe I wa’n’t only the scum o’ the earth, as I’d ben 


DAVID HA HUM 


201 


teaelied to believe. I told ye that that day was the 
turning-point of my life. Wa’al, it wa’n’t the lickin’ I 
got. though that had somethin’ to do with it, but I'd 
never have had the spunk to run away’s I did if it 
hadn’t ben fer the heartenin’ Billy P. gin me, an’ 
never knowed it—an’ never knowed it,” lie repeated 
mournfully. “I alwus allowed to pay some o’ that 
debt back to him, but seein’ ’s I can’t do that, Mis’ 
Cullom, I’m glad an’ thankful to pay it to his 
widdo’.” 

“Mebbe he knows, Dave,” said Mrs. Cullom softly. 

“Mebbe he does,” assented David in a low voice. 

Neither spoke for a time, and then the widow said : 
“David, I can’t thank ye ’s I ought ter—I don’t know 
how—but I’ll pray for ye night an’ mornin’ ’s long’s I 
got breath. An’, Dave,” she added humbly, “I want 
to take back what I said about the Lord’s providin’.” 

She sat a moment, lost in her thoughts, and then ex¬ 
claimed, “Oh, it don’t seem ’s if I c’d wait to write to 
Charley! ” 

“I’ve wrote to Charley,” said David, “an’ told him 
to sell out there an’ come home, an’ to draw on me fer 
any balance he needed to move him. I’ve got some¬ 
thin’ in my eye that’ll be easier an’ better payin’ 
than fightin’ grasshoppers an’ drought in Kansas.” 

“Dave Harum! ” cried the widow, rising to her 
feet, “you ought to ’a’ ben a king ! ” 

“Wa’al,” said David, with a grin, “I don’t know 
much about the kingin’ bus’nis, but I guess a cloth 
cap hi’ a boss-whip’s more ’n my line than a crown an 
scepter. An’ now,” he added, “’s we’ve got through 
’tli our bus’nis, s’pose you step over to the house an 
see Polly. She’s expectin’ ye to dinner. Oh, yes,” 


202 


DAVID HARUM 


replying to the look of deprecation in her face as she 
viewed her shabby frock, “you an’ Polly c’n prink up 
some if you want to, but w r e can’t take ‘No’ fer an 
answer Chris’mus day, clo’es or no clo’es.” 

“I’d really like ter,” said Mrs. Cullom. 

“All right, then,” said David cheerfully. “The path 
is swep’ by this time, I guess, an’ I’ll see ye later. Oh, 



by the way,” he exclaimed, “the’s somethin’ I fergot. 
I want to make you a proposition—ruther an onusual 
one, but seein’ ev’rytliin’ is as’t is, perhaps you’ll con¬ 
sider it.” 

“Dave,” declared the widow, “if I could, an’ you ast 
for it, I’d give ye anythin’ on the face o’ this mortal 
globe ! ” 

“Wa’al,” said David, nodding and smiling, “I thought 
that mebbe, long’s you got the int’rist of that invest- 





DAVID HARUM 


2°3 

ment we ben talkin’ about, you’d let me keep what’s 
left of the princ’pal. Would ye like to see it? ” 

Mrs. Cullom looked at him with a puzzled expression 
without replying. 

David took from his pocket a large wallet, secured by 
a strap, and, opening it, extracted something enveloped 
in much-faded brown paper. Unfolding this, he dis¬ 
played upon his broad, fat palm an old silver dime 
black with age. 

u There’s the cap’tal,” he said. 


CHAPTER XXI 


John walked to the front door with Mrs. Cullom, 

but she declined with sueh evident sincerity his offer to 

carry her bundle to the house that he lei her out of the 
«/ 

office and returned to the back room. David was sit: 
ting before the fire, leaning back in his chair, with his 
hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets. He looked 
up as John entered, and said, “Draw up a chair.” 

John brought a chair and stood by tlie side of it 
while he said, “I want to thank you for the Christmas 
remembrance, which pleased and touched me very 
deeply ; and,” lie added diffidently, “I want to say how 
mortified I am—in fact, I want to apologize for—” 

“Regrettin’ I ” interrupted David, with a motion of 
his hand toward the chair and a smile of great amuse¬ 
ment. “Sho, sho ! Se’ down, se’ down. I’m glad you 
found somethin’ in your stockin’, if it pleased ye; an’ 
as fur’s that regret o’ yourn was concerned—wa’al — 
wa’al, I liked ye all the better for’t, I did fer a fact. 
He, he, he ! Appearances was ruther agin me, wasn’t 
they, I lie way I told it.” 

“Nevertheless,” said John, seating himself, “I ought 
not to have—that is to say, I ought to have known — ” 

“How could ye,” David broke in, “when I as good 
as told ye I was eaPlatin’ to rob I he old lady? He, he, 
he, he ! Seat my— ! Your face was a picter when 1 
told ye to write that note, though I reckon you didn’t 
know I noticed it.” 

John laughed and said, “You have been very gener- 
ous all through, Mr. Ilarum.” 


DAVID HA RUM 


2 °5 


•‘Nothin’ to brag on,” lie replied, “nothin’ to brag 
on. Fur's Mis 1 Cullom’s matter was concerned, ’t was 
as I said, jes’ payin’ off an old score ; an’ as fur’s your 
stockin’, it’s really putty much the same. I’ll allow 
you’ve earned it, if it’ll set any easier on your 
stomecli.” 

“I can’t say that I have been overworked,” said 
John, with a slight laugh. 

“Mebbe not,” rejoined David, “but you liain’t ben 
overpaid neither, an’ I want ye to be satisfied. Fact 
is,” lie continued, “my gettin’ you up here was putty 
consid’able of an experiment; but I ben watchin’ ye 
putty close, an’ I’m more’n satisfied. Mebbe Timson 
c’d beat ye at figurin’ an’ countin’ money when you 
fust come, an’ knowed more about the pertic’ler p’ints 
of the office, but outside of that he was the biggist 
dumb-liead I ever see, an’ you know how he lef’ things. 
He hadn’t no tack, fer one thing. Outside of summin’ 
up figures an’ countin’ money, he had a faculty fer get- 
tin’ things t’other end to that beat all. I’d tell him a 
thing, an’ explain it to him two three times over, an’ 
he’d say, ‘Yes, yes,’ an’, scat my— ! when it came to 
carryin’ on’t out, he hadn’t sensed it a mite—jes’ got it 
which end t’other. An’ talk ! Wa’al, I think it must 
’a’ ben a kind of disease with him. He really didn’t 
mean no harm, mebbe, but he couldn’t no more help 
lettin’ out anythin’ he knowed, or thought he knowed, 
than a settin’ hen c’n help settin’. He kep’ me on 
tenter hooks the hull endurin’ time.” 

“I should say he was honest enough, was he not?” 
said John. 

“Oh, yes,” replied David, with a touch of scorn, “he 
was honest enough, fur’s money matters was concerned ; 


206 


DAVID HARUM 


but he hadn’t no tack, nor no sense, an’ many a time 
he done more mischief with his gibble-gabble than if 
he’d took fifty dollars out an’ out. Fact is,” said 
David, “the kind of honesty that won’t actually steal’s 
a kind of fool honesty that’s common enough; but the 
kind that keeps a feller’s mouth shut when he hadn’t 
ought to talk’s about the scurcest thing goin’. I’ll jes’ 
tell ye, fer example, the last mess he made. You know 
Purse, that keeps the gen’ral store? Wa’al, he come to 
me some months ago, on the quiet, an’ said that he 
wanted to borro’ five hunderd. He didn’t want to git 
no indorser, but he’d show me his books an’ give me a 
statement an’ a chattel morgige fer six months. He 
didn’t want nobody to know’t he was anyway pushed 
fer money, because he wanted to git some extensions, 
an’ so on. I made up my mind it was all right, an’ I 
done it. V a’al, about a month or so after, he come to 
me with tears in his eyes, as ye might say, an’ says, *1 
got somethin’ I want to show ye,’ an’ handed out a 
letter from the house in Yew York he had some of his 
biggist dealin’s with, tellin’ him that they regretted ” 
—here David gave John a nudge—“that they couldn’t 
give him the extensions he ast for, an’ that his paper 
must be paid as it fell due—some twelve hunderd 
dollars. ‘ Somebody’s leaked,’ he says, ‘an’ they’ve 
heard of that morgige, an’ I’m in a putty scrape,’ he 
says. 

“‘H’m’m,’ I says, ‘what makes ye think so?’ 

“‘Can’t be nothin’ else,’ he says; ‘I’ve dealt with 
them people fer years an’ never ast fer nothin’ but 
what I got it, an' now to have ’em round up on me like 
this, it can’t be nothin’ but what they’ve got wind o’ 
that chattel morgige,’ he says. 


DAVID HARUM 


20 7 


IU 


H’m’m,’ I says. ‘Any o’ tlieir people ben up here 
lately ? ’ I says. 

“‘That’s jest it,’ he says. ‘One o’ their travelin’ 
men was up here last week, an’ he come in in the after¬ 
noon, as chipper as you please, wantin’ to sell me a bill 
o’ goods, an’ I put him off, 
sayin’ that I had a putty big 
stock, an’ so on, an’ he said 
he'd see me agin in the 
mornin’—you know that 
sort of talk,’ he says. 

“‘Wa’al,’ I says, ‘did he 
come in'?’ 

“‘No,’ says Purse, ‘he 
didn’t. I never set eyes on 
him agin, an’ more’n that,’ 
he says, ‘he took the fust 
train in the mornin’ ; an’ 
now,’ he says, ‘ I expect I’ll 
have ev’ry last man I owe 
anythin’ to buzzin’ round my ears.’ 

“‘Wa’al,’ I says, ‘I guess I see 
about how the land lays, an’ I 
reckon vou ain’t fur out about the 
morgige bein’ at the bottom on’t, an’ the’ ain’t no way 
it c’d ’a’ leaked out ’ceptin’ through that dum’d chuckle¬ 
head of a Timson. But this is the way it looks to me— 
you hain’t heard nothin’ in the village, have ye?’ I says. 

“‘No,’ he says, ‘not yit ,’ he says. 

“‘Wa’al, ye won’t, I don’t believe,’ I says ; ‘an’ as fur 
as that drummer is concerned, you c’n bet,’ I says, 
‘that he didn’t nor won’t let on to nobody but his own 
folks—not till his bus’nis is squared up j an’ more’n 
2 9 



/-v 





208 


DAVID HA HUM 


that/ I says, ‘seem’ that your trouble’s ben made ye 
by one o’ my help, I don’t see but what I’ll have to see 
ye through/ I says. ‘You jes’ give me the address of 
the Yew York parties, an’ tell me what you want done, 
an’ I reckon I c’n fix the thing so’t they won’t bother 
ye. I don’t believe/ I says, ‘that anybody else knows 
anythin’ yet, an’ I’ll shut up Timson’s yawp so’s it’ll 
stay shut.’ ” 

“How did the matter come out ?” asked John, “and 
what did Purse say?” 

“Oh,” replied David, “Purse went off head up an’ 
tail ui>. He said he was everlastin’ly obliged to me, 
an’—he, he, he !—he said ’twas more’ll he expected. 
You see, I charged him what I thought was right oil 
the ’rig’nal deal, an’ he squimmidged some, an’ I reckon 
he allowed to be putty well bled it I took holt agin; 
but I done as I agreed on the extension bus’nis, an’ 
I’m on his paper fer twelve hunderd fer nothin’, jest 
because that nikum-noddy of a Timson let that drum¬ 
mer bamboozle him into talkin’. I found out the hull 
thing, an’ the very day I wrote to the Yew York fellers 
fer Purse, I wrote to Gen’ral Wolsev to find me some¬ 
body to take Timson’s place. I allowed I’d rutlier 
have somebody that didn’t know nobody than such a 
clackin’ ole lie-lien as Chet.” 

“I should have said that it was rather a hazardous 
thing to do,” said John, “to put a total stranger like 
me into what is rather a confidential position, as well 
as a responsible one.” 

“Wa’al,” said David, “in the fust place, I knew that 
the gen’ral wouldn’t recommend no dead-beat nor no 
skin, an’ I allowed that if the raw material was O. K. 

I could break it in, an’ if it wa’n’t I should find it out 


DAVID HAIUM 


20 (j 

putty quick. Like a young boss/’ lie remarked, “if 
he’s sound an’ kind, an’ got gumption, I’d sooner break 
him in myself hi not—fur’s my use goes ; an’ if I can’t 
nobody can, an’ I get rid on him. You understand?” 

“Yes,” said John, with a smile. 

“Wa’al,” continued David, “I liked your letter, an’ 
when you come I liked your looks. Of course I couldn’t 
tell jest how you’d take holt, nor if you an’ me’d.hitch. 
Air then agin, I didn’t know whether you could stan’ 
it here after livin’ in a city all your life. I watched ye 
putty close—closter ’n you knowed of, I guess. I seen 
right off that you was goin’ to fill your collar fur’s the 
work was concerned, an’ though you didn’t know no¬ 
body much, an’ couldn’t have no amusement to speak 
on, you didn’t mope nor sulk ; an’ what’s more, though 
I know I advised ye to stay there fer a spell longer 
when you spoke about boardin’ somewhere else, 1 
know what the Eagle tavern is in winter—summer 
too, fer that matter, though it’s a little better then—an’ 
I allowed that air test’d be final. He, he, he ! Putty 
rough, ain’t it? ” 

“It is, rather,” said John, laughing. “I’m afraid my 
endurance is pretty well at an end. Elright’s wifi* is 
ill, and the fact is that since day before yesterday I 
have been living on what I could buy at the grocery - 
crackers, cheese, salt fish, canned goods, et cetera.” 

“Scat my—!” cried David. “Wa’al, wa’al! 
That’s too dum’d bad ! Why on earth—why, you 
must be hungry! Wa’al, you won’t have to eat no salt 
herrin’ to-day, because Polly ’n’ I are expectin’ ye to 
dinner.” 

Two 01* three times during the conversation David 
had gone to the window overlooking his lawn and 


210 


DAVID HARUM 


looked out with a general air of observing the weather, 
and at this point he did so again, coming back to his 
seat with a look of satisfaction for which there was, to 
John, no obvious reason. He sat for a moment, with¬ 
out speaking, and then, looking at his watch, said : 
“Wa’al, dinner’s at one o’clock, an’ Polly’s a great one 
fer bein’ on time. Guess I’ll go out an’ have another 
look at that pesky colt. You better go over to the 
house ’bout quarter to one, an’ you c’n make your t’ilet 
over there. I’m ’fraid if you go over to the Eagle it’ll 
spile your appetite. She’d think it might, anyway.” 

So David departed to see the colt, and John got out 
some of the books and busied himself with them until 
the time to present himself at David’s house. 


CHAPTER XXII 


“Why, Mis’ Cullom, I’m real glad to see ye ! Come 
rigid in,’’ said Mrs. Bixbee as she drew the widow iido 
the “wing settin’-room” and proceeded to relieve her 
of her wraps and her bundle. “Set right here by the 
lire while I take these things of yourn into the kitchen 
to dry ’em out. I’ll be right back.” And she bustled 
out of the room. When she came back Mrs. Cullom 
was sitting with her hands in her lap, and there was in 
her eyes an expression of smiling peace that was good 
to see. 

Mrs. Bixbee drew up a chair and, seating herself, 
said : “Wa’al, I don’t know when I’ve seen ye to git a 
chance to speak to ye, an’ I was real pleased when 
David said you was goin’ to be here to dinner. An’ 
my ! how well you’re lookin’—more like Cynthy Sweet- 
laud than I’ve seen ye fer I don’t know when ; an’ 
yet,” she added, looking curiously at her guest, “you 
’pear somehow as if you’d ben cryin’.” 

“You’re real kind, I’m sure,” responded Mrs. Cullom, 
replying to the other’s welcome and remarks seriatim; 
“I guess, though, I don’t look much like Cynthy Sweet- 
land, if I do feel twenty years younger ’n I did awhile 
ago ; an’ I have ben cryin’, I allow, but not fer sorro’. 
Polly Harum,” she exclaimed, giving the other her 
maiden name, “your brother Dave comes putty nigh 
to bein’ an angel! ” 

“AVa’al,” replied Mrs. Bixbee, with a twinkle, “I 
reckon Dave might hev to be fixed up some afore he 
come out in that pertic’ler shape ; but,” she added im- 


2 1 2 


DAVID HARUM 


pressively, “es fur as bein’ a man goes, lie’s ’bout ’s 
good ’s they make ’em. I know folks thinks he’s a 
hard bargainer, an’ close-fisted, an’ some on ’em that 
ain’t fit to lick up his tracks says more’n that. He’s 
got his own ways, I’ll allow; but down at bottom, an’ 
all through, I know the’ ain’t no better man livin’. 
No, ma’am, the’ ain’t; an’ what lie’s ben to me, Cynthy 
Cullom, nobody knows but me—an’—an’—mebbe the 
Lord —though I hev seen the time,” she said tenta¬ 
tively, “when it seemed to me’t I knowed more about 
my affairs’ll He did”; and she looked doubtfully at 
her companion, who had been following her with 
affirmative and sympathetic nods, and now drew her 
chair a little closer, and said softly : “Yes, yes, I know. 
I ben putty doubtful an’ rebellious myself a good many 
times, but seems now as if He had had me in His mercy 
all the time.” Here Aunt Polly’s sense of humor as¬ 
serted itself. “What’s Dave ben up to now?” she 
asked. 

And then the widow told her story, with tears and 
smiles, and the keen enjoyment which we all have in 
talking about ourselves to a sympathetic listener like 
Aunt Polly, whose interjections pointed and illuminated 
the narrative. When it was finished she leaned for¬ 
ward and kissed Mrs. Cullom on the cheek. 

“I can’t tell ye how glad I be for ye,” she said ; “but 
if I’d known that David held that morgige, I could hev 
told ye ye needn’t hev worried yourself a mite. He 
wouldn’t never have taken your prop’tv, more’n he’d 
rob a hen-roost. But he done the thing his own way— 
kind o’ fetched it round fer a Merry Chris’mus, didn’t 
he? Curious,” she said reflectively, after a momentary 
pause, “how he lays up things about his childhood.” 


DAVID HARUM 


21 3 


And then, with a searching look at the Widow Culloni, 
“You didn’t let on, an’ I didn’t ask ye, but of course 
you’ve heard the things that some folks says of him, 
an’ natchally they got some holt on your mind. There’s 
that story about ’Lish, over to Whitcom—you heard 
somethin’ about that, didn’t ye?” 

“Yes,” admitted the widow, “I heard somethin’ of 
it, I s’pose.” 

“Wa’al,” said Mrs. Bixbee, “you never heard the 
hull story, ner anybody else really, but I’m goin’ to 
tell it to ye.” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Culloni assentingly. 

Mrs. Bixbee sat lip straight in her chair, with her 
hands on her knees and an air of one who would see 
justice done. 

“’Lish Harum,” she began, “wa’n’t only half-brother 
to Dave. He was hull-brother to me, though ; but not- 
withstandin’ that, I will say that a meaner boy, a 
meaner growin’ man, an’ a meaner man never walked 
the earth. He wa’n’t satisfied to git the best piece 
an’ the biggist piece—he hated to hev any one else git 
anythin’ at all. I don’t believe lie ever laughed in his 
life, except over some kind o’ suff’rin’—man or beast— 
an’ what ’d tickle him the most was to be the means 
01ft. He took pertic’ler delight in abusin’ an’ tor¬ 
mentin’ Dave, an’ the poor little critter was jest as 
’fraid as death of him, an’ good reason. Father was 
awful hard, but lie didn’t go out of his way; but 
’Lish never let no chance slip. Wa’al, I ain’t goin’ 
to give you the hull fam’ly hist’ry, an’ I’ve got to go 
into the kitchen fer a while ’fore dinner, but what I 
started out fer ’s this : ’Lish finely settled over to 
Whitcom.” 


N 


214 


DAVID HARUM 


“Did he ever git married?” interrupted Mrs. 
Cullom. 

“Oh, yes/’ replied Mrs. Bixbee, “he got married 
when he was past forty. It’s curious/’ she remarked, 
in passing, “but it don’t seem as if the’ was ever yit 
a man so mean 
woman was fool 
an’ she was a 


woman, too, 



ft A v ji ..,/ 



but he c’d find some 
enough to marry him; 
putty decent sort of a 
f’m all accounts, an’ 
good-lookin’. Wa’al, she 
stood him six or seven 
year, an’ then she run 
off.” 

“With another man f” 
queried the widow in an 
voice. 


v.. awed 

An nt Pollv nodded assent 


V 


with compressed lips. “Yes’m, 
she went on, “she left him an’ 
went out West somewhere, an’ 
that was the last of her ; an’ 
when her two boys got old 
enough to look after them- 
V-' selves a little, they quit him 
too, an’ thev wa’n’t noway 
growed up, neither. Wa’al, 
the long an’ the short on’t was 
that ’Lisli got goin’ downhill 
ev’ry way, health an’ all, till he hadn’t nothin’ left but his 
disposition, an’ fairly got outer the town. The’ wa’n’t 
nothin’ for it but to send him to the county house, 

v / 

onless somebody’d s’port him. Wa’al, the committee 
knew Dave was his brother, an’ one on ’em come to see 


DAVID HARUM 


21 5 

liim to see if he’d come forwud an’ help out$ an’ he 
seen Dave right here in this room, an’ Dave made me 
stay an’ hear the hull thing. Man’s name was Smith, I 
remember, a peaked little man, with long chin whiskers 
that he kep’ clawin’ at with his fingers. Dave let him 
tell his story, an’ he didn’t say nothin’ fer a minute or 
two, an’ then he says, ‘What made ye come to me!’ he 
says. ‘ Did he send ye ! ’ 

“‘Wa’al,’ says Smith, ‘when it was clear that he 
couldn’t do nothin’, we ast him if the’ wa’n’t nobody 
could put up fer him, an’ he said you was his brother, 
an’ well off, an’ hadn’t ought to let him go t’ the poor- 
house.’ 

“‘He said that, did he!’ says Dave. 

“‘Amountin’ to that,’ says Smith. 

“‘Wa’al,’ says Dave, ‘it’s a good many years sence I 
see ’Lish, an’ mebbe you know him better ’n I do. 
You known him some time, eli!’ 

“‘Quite a number o’ years,’ says Smith. 

“‘What sort of a feller was he,’ says Dave, ‘when he 
was somebody! Putty good feller! good citizen! good 
neighber! lib’ral! kind to his fam’ly! ev’rybody like 
him! gen’ally pop’lar, an’ all that!’ 

“‘Wa’al,’ says Smith, wigglin’ in his chair an’ pullin’ 
out his whiskers three four hairs to a time, ‘ I guess he 
come some short of all that.’ 

“‘E-umph !’ says Dave, ‘I guess he did ! Now, hon¬ 
est,’ he says, ‘is the’ a man, woman, or child in Wliit- 
com, that knows ’Lish Harum, that’s got a good word 
fer him, or ever knowed of his doin’ or sayin’ anythin’ 
that hadn’t got a mean side to it someway! Didn’t he 
drive his wife off, out an’ out! an’ didn’t his two bovs 

hev to quit him soon ’s they could travel! An’,’ says 
30 


2l6 


DAVID HARUM 


Dave, ‘if any one was to ask you to figure out a pat¬ 
tern of the meanist human skunk you was capable of 
thinkin’ of, wouldn’t it—honest, now!* Dave says, 
‘honest, now—wouldn’t it be’s near like ’Lisli Harum 
as one buck-shot’s like another?’ ” 



“My!” exclaimed Mrs. Cullom. “What did Mr. 
Smith say to that ? ” 

“\\ a’al,” replied Mrs. Bixbee, “he didn’t say nothin’ 
at lust, not in so many words. He sot fer a minute, 
clawin’ away at his whiskers—an’ he’d got both hands 
into ’em by that time—an’ then he made a move as 
if he gin the hull thing up an’ was goin’. Dave 
set lookin’ at him, an’ then he says, ‘You ain’t goin’, 













DAVID HAKI M 


“‘Wa’al,’ says Smith, ‘feelin’ ’s you do, I guess niy 
arrant here ain’t goin’ t’ amount to nothin’, an’ I 
may’s well.’ 

“‘No, you set still a minute,’ says Dave. ‘If you’ll 
answer my question honest an’ square, I’ve got sunthin’ 
more to say to ye. Come, now,’ he says. 

“‘Wa’al,’ says Smith, with a kind of give-it-up sort 
of a grin, ‘ I guess you sized him up about right. I 
didn’t come to see you on ’Lisli Hamm’s account. I 
come fer the town of Whitcom.’ An’ then he spunked 
up some an’ says, ‘I don’t give a darn,’ he says, ‘what 
’comes of ’Lisli, an’ I don’t know nobody as does, fur ’s 
lie’s person’ly concerned $ but he’s got to be a town 
charge less’n you take’m off our hands.’ 

“Dave turned to me an’ says, jest as if he meant it, 
‘How’d you like to have him here, Polly?’ 

“‘Dave Haruin!’ I says, ‘what be you thinkin’ of, 
seein’ what he is, an’ alwus was, an’ how he alwus 
treated you? Lord sakes ! ’ I says, ‘you ain’t thinkin’ 
of it ! ’ 

“‘Not much,’ he says, with an ugly kind of a smile, 
sueli as I never see in his face before, ‘not much ! Not 
under this roof, or any roof of mine, if it wa’n’t more’ll 
my cow-stable—an’,’ he says, turnin’ to Smith, ‘this is 
what I want to say to you : You’ve done all right. I 
hain’t no fault to find with you. But I want you to go 
back an’ say to ’Lisli Hamm that you’ve seen me, an’ 
that I told you that not one cent o’ my money nor one 
mossel o’ my food would ever go to keep him alive one 
minute of time; that if I had an empty hog-pen I 
wouldn’t let him sleep in’t overnight, much less to 
bunk in with a decent hog. You tell him that I said 
the poorhouse was his proper dwellin’, barrin’ the jail, 


2 1 8 


DAVID HARUM 


an’ that it’d have to be a dum’d sight poorer house ’n 
I ever heard of not to be a thousan’ times too good fer 
him.”’ 

“My ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Cullom again. “I can’t really 
’magine it of Dave.” 

“Wa’al,” replied Mrs. Bixbee, “I told ye how set he 
is on his young days, an’ nobody knows how cruel 
mean ’Lish used to be to him; but I never see it come 
out of him so ugly before, though I didn’t blame him a 
mite. But I hain’t told ye the upshot. ‘Now,’ he says 
to Smith, who set with his mouth gappin’ open, ‘you 
understand how I feel about the feller, an’ I’ve got 
good reason fer it. I want you to promise me that 
you’ll say to him, word fer word, jes’ what I’ve said to 
you about him, an’ I’ll do this : You folks send him to 
the poorhouse, an’ let him git jes’ what the rest on ’em 
gits—no more an’ no less—as long ’s he lives. When 
he dies you git him the tightest coffin you kin buy, to 
keep him fm spilin’ the earth as long as may be, an’ 
then you send me the hull bill. But this has got to be 
between you an’ me only. You c’n tell the rest of the 
committee what you like, but if you ever tell a livin’ 
soul about this here understandin’, an’ I find it out, I’ll 
never pay one cent, an’ you’ll be to blame. I’m willin’, 
on them terms, to stan’ between the town of Whitcom 
an’ harm ; but fer ’Lish Harum not one sumarkee ! Is 
it a barg’in?’ Dave says. 

“‘Yes, sir,’ says Smith, puttin’ out his hand. ‘An’ I 
guess,’ he says, ‘f’m all’t I c’n gather, thet you’re doin’ 
all’t we could expect, an’ more too’ ; an’ off he put.” 

“How’d it come out?” asked Mrs. Cullom. 

“’Lish lived about two year,” replied Aunt Polly, 
“an 1 Dave done as he agreed; but even then, when he 


DAVID HARUM 


2 19 

come to settle up, lie told Smith he didn’t want no 
more said about it ’n could be helped.” 

“Wa’al,” said Mrs. Cullom, “it seems to me as if 
David did take care on him, after all, fur’s spendin’ 
money was concerned.” 

“That’s the way it looks to me,” said Mrs. Bixbee, 
“but David likes to think t’other. He meant to be 
awful mean, an’ he was—as mean as he could—but the 
fact is, he didn’t reelly know how. My sakes ! Cynthy ” 
(looking at the clock), “ I’ll hev to excuse myself fer a 
spell. Ef you want to do any fixin’ up ’fore dinner, 
jes’ step into my bedroom. I’ve laid some things out 
011 the bed, if you should happen to want any of ’em,” 
and she hurried out of the room. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


David’s house stood about a hundred feet back from 
the street, facing the east. The main body of tlie 
house was of two stories (through which ran a deep 
bay in front), with Mansard roof. On the south were 
two stories of the “wing,” in which were the “settin’- 
room,” Aunt Polly’s room, and, above, David’s quarters. 

Ten minutes or so before one o’clock John rang the 
bell at the front door. 

“Sairy’s busy,” said Mrs. Bixbee apologetically as she 
let him in, “an’ so I come to the door myself.” 

“Thank you very much,” said John. “Mr. Ilarum 
told me to come over a little before one, but perhaps I 
ought to have waited a few minutes longer.” 

“No, it’s all right,” she replied, “for mebbe you’d 
like to wash an’ fix up ’fore dinner, so I’ll jes’ show ye 
where to,” and she led the way up-stairs and into the 
“front parlor bedroom.” 

“There,” she said, “make yourself comftable, an’ 
dinner’ll be ready in about ten minutes.” 

For a moment John mentally rubbed his eyes. Then 
lie t urned and caught both of Mrs. Bixbee’s hands and 
looked al her, speechless. When he found words lie 
said : “ I don’t know what to say, nor how to thank you 
properly. I don’t believe you know how kind this is.” 

“Don’t say nothin’ about it,” she protested, but with 
a look of great satisfaction. “I done it jest t’ relieve 
my mind, because ever sence you fus’ come I ben wor- 
ryin’ over your bein’ at that nasty tavern ” ; and she 
made a motion to go. 


DAVID HA RUM 


22 1 


“You and your brother,” said John earnestly, still 
holding her hands, “have made me a gladder and hap¬ 
pier man this Christmas day than I have been for a 
very long time.” 

“I’m glad on’t,” she said heartily, “an’ I hope you’ll 
be comf’table an’ contented here. I must go now an’ 
help Sairy dish up. Come down to the settin’-room 
when you’re ready,” and she gave his hands a little 
squeeze. 

“Aunt Po—, I beg pardon, Mrs. JBixbee,” said John, 
moved by a sudden impulse, “do you think you could 
find it in your heart to complete my happiness by giv¬ 
ing me a kiss'? It’s Christmas, you know,” he added 
smilingly. 

Aunt Polly colored to the roots of her hair. 
“Wa’al,” she said, with a little laugh, “seein’ ’t I’m 
old enough to be your mother, I guess ’twon’t hurt 
me none ” ; and as she went down the stairs she softly 
rubbed her lips with the side of her forefinger. 

John understood now why David had looked out of 
the back window so often that morning. All his be¬ 
longings were in Aunt Polly’s best bedroom, having 
been moved over from the Eagle while he and David 
had been in the office. A delightful room it was, in 
immeasurable contrast to his squalid surroundings at 
that hostelry. The spacious bed, with its snowy coun¬ 
terpane and silk patchwork “comf’table” folded on 
the foot, the bright fire in the open stove, the big 
bureau and glass, the soft carpet, the table for writing 
and reading standing in the bay, his books on the broad 
mantel, and his dressing things laid out ready to his 
hand, not to mention an ample supply of dry towels on 
tlie rack. 


222 


DAVID HARUM 


The poor fellow’s life (luring the weeks which he had 
lived in Homeville had been utterly in contrast with 
any previous experience. Nevertheless he had tried 
to make the best of it, and to endure the monotony, 
the dullness, the entire lack of companionship and 
entertainment, with what philosophy he could muster. 
The hours spent in the office were the best part of the 
day. He could manage to find occupation for all of 
them, though a village bank is not usually a scene of 
active bustle. Many of the people who did business 
there diverted him somewhat, and most of them seemed 
never too much in a hurry to stand around and talk 
the sort of thing that interested them. After John 
had got acquainted with his duties and the people he 
came in contact with, David gave less personal atten¬ 
tion to the affairs of the bank ; but he was in and out 
frequently during the day, and rarely failed to interest 
his cashier with his observations and remarks. 

But the long winter evenings had been very bad. 
After supper, a meal which revolted every sense, there 
had been as many hours to be got through with as he 
found wakeful, an empty stomach often adding to the 
number of them, and the only resource for passing the 
time had been reading, which had often been well-nigh 
impossible for sheer physical discomfort. As has been 
remarked, the winter climate of the middle portion of 
New York State is as bad as can be imagined. His 
light was a kerosene lamp of half-candle power, and 
his appliance for warmth consisted of a small wood 
stove, which (as David would have expressed it) “took 
two men an’ a boy” to keep in action, and was either 
red-hot or exhausted. 

As from the depths of a spacious lounging-chair he 


DAVID HARUM 


223 


surveyed his new surroundings, and contrasted them 
with those from which he had been rescued out of pure 
kindness, his heart was full, and it can hardly be im¬ 
puted to him as a weakness that for a moment his eyes 
tilled with tears of gratitude and happiness—no less. 

Indeed, there were four happy people at David’s 
table that Christmas day. Aunt Polly had “smartened 
up” Mrs. Cullom with collar and cuffs, and in various 
ways which the mind of man compreliendeth not in 
detail; and there had been some arranging of her hair 
as well; which altogether had so transformed and trans¬ 
figured her that John thought that he should hardly 
have known her for the forlorn creature whom he had 
encountered in the morning. And as he looked at the 
still fine eyes, large and brown, and shining for the first 
time in many a year with a soft light of happiness, he 
felt that he could understand how it was that Billy P. 
had married the village girl. 

Mrs. Bixbee was grand in black silk and lace collar 
fastened with a shell-cameo pin not quite as large as a 
saucer, and John caught the sparkle of a diamond on 
her plump left hand—David’s Christmas gift, with 
regard to which she had spoken apologetically to Mrs. 
Cullom : 

“I told David that I was ever so much obliged to 
him, but I didn’t want a diinun’ more’ll a cat wanted a 
flag, an’ I thought it was jes’ throwin’ away money. 
But he would have it—said I c’d sell it an’ keep out 
the poorliouse some day, mebbe.” 

David had not made much change in his usual rai¬ 
ment, but he was shaved to the blood, and his round 
red face shone with soap and satisfaction. As he 
tucked his napkin into his shirt collar, Sairy brought 
31 


224 


DAVID HARUM 



in the tureen of oyster soup, and he remarked, as he 
took his first spoonful of the stew, that he was “hungry 
’nough V eat a graven imige” ; a condition that John 
was able to sympathize with after his two days of fast¬ 
ing on crackers and such provisions as he could buy at 
Purse’s. It was, on the whole, he reflected, the most 

enjoyable dinner that 
he ever ate. Never 
was such a turkey; 
and to see it give way 
under David’s 
skillful knife 
—wings, drum¬ 
sticks, second 
joints, side 
bones, breast 
—was an el¬ 
evating and 
memorable ex¬ 
perience. And 
such potatoes, 
mashed in 
cream ! such boiled onions, turnips, 
Hubbard squash, succotash, stewed 
tomatoes, celery, cranberries, “cur¬ 
rant jell” ! Oh ! and to “top off” with, a mince-pie 
to die for, and a pudding (new to John, but just you 
try it some time) of steamed Indian meal and fruit, with 
a sauce of cream sweetened with shaved maple sugar. 

“What’ll you have?” said David to Mrs. Cullom, 
“dark meat? white meat?” 

“Anything,” she replied meekly ; “I’m not partic’ler. 
’Most any part of a turkey’ll taste good, I guess.” 




N ^ 





DAVID HAKUM 


225 

“All right,” said David. “‘Don’t care’ means a lit¬ 
tle o’ both. I alwus know what to give Polly—pieee 
o’ the second j’int, an’ the last-thing-over-the-fence. 
Nice ’11’ rich fer scraggly folks,” he remarked. “How 
fer you, John?—little o’ both, eh?” and he heaped the 
plate till our friend begged him to keep something for 
himself. 

“Little too much is jes’ right,” he asserted. 

When David had filled the plates and handed them 
along—Sairy was for bringing in and taking out, while 
they did their own helping to vegetables and “passin’ ” 
—he hesitated a moment, and then got out of his 
chair and started in the direction of lhe kitchen 
door. 

“What’s the matter?” asked Mrs. Bixbee in surprise. 
“Where you goin’?” 

“Woodshed,” said David. 

“Woodshed!” she exclaimed, making as if to rise 
and follow. 

“You set still,” said David. “Somethin’ I fergot.” 

“What on earth!” she exclaimed, with an air of 
annoyance and bewilderment. “What do you want in 
the woodshed? Can’t you set down an’ let Sairy git it 
for ye ? ” 

“No,” he asserted, with a grin. “Sairy might sqush 
it. It must be putty meller by this time.” And out 
he went. 

“Manners ! ” ejaculated Mrs. Bixbee. “ You’ll think ” 
(to John) “we’re reg’ler lieathin.” 

“I guess not,” said John, smiling and much amused. 

Presently Sairy appeared with four tumblers, which 
she distributed, and was followed by David bearing a 
bottle. He seated himself and began a struggle to un- 


226 


DAVID HARUM 


wire the same with an ice-pick. Aunt Polly leaned 
forward with a look of perplexed curiosity. 

“What you got there "?’ 7 she asked. 

“Yewve Clikot’s universal an’ suv’rin remedy,” said 
David, reading the label and bringing the corners of 

liis eye and mouth 
almost together in a 
wink to John, “fer 
toothache, ear¬ 
ache, burns, 
scalds, warts, 
dispepsy, fail¬ 
in’ o’ the hair, 
w i n d - g a 1 1 , 
r i n g - b o n e, 
spavin, disap- 
p’inted affections, an’ 
PiP s hens.” And 
came the cork 


with a wop! at which 
both the ladies, even 
Mrs. Cullom, jumped and 
cried out. 

“David Harum,” declared his sister, 
with conviction, “I believe thet that’s 
a bottle of champagne! ” 

“If it ain’t,” said David, pouring into his tumbler, 
“I ben swindled out o’ four shillin’ ” ; and he passed the 
bottle to John, who held it up inquiringly, looking at 
Mrs. Bixbee. 

“No, thank ye,” she said, with a little toss of the 
head, “I’m a son o’ temp’rence. I don’t believe,” she 
remarked to Mrs. Cullom, “thet that bottle ever cost 
less ’n a dollar.” At which remarks David apparently 




DAVID HA RUM 


22 } 


“swallered somethin’ Hie wrong way / 7 and for a mo¬ 
ment or two was unable to proceed with his dinner. 
Aunt Polly looked at him suspiciously. It was her 
experience that, in her intercourse with her brother, 
lie often laughed utterly without reason—so far as she 
could see. 

a I’ve always heard it was dreadful expensive/’ 
remarked Mrs. Cullom. 

“Let me give you some,” said John, reaching toward 
her with the bottle. 

Mrs. Cullom looked first at Mrs. Bixbee and then at 
David. “I don’t know,” she said. “I never tasted 
any.” 

“Take a little,” said David, nodding approvingly. 

“Just a swaller,” said the widow, whose curiosity had 
got the better of scruples. She took a swallow of the 
wine. 

“How do ye like it?” asked David. 

“Well,” she said as she wiped her eyes, into which 
the gas had driven the tears, “I guess I could get along 
if I couldn’t have it regular.” 

“Don’t taste good?” suggested David, with a grin. 

“Well,” she replied, “I never did care any great for 
eider, an’ this tastes to me about as if I was drink in 1 
cider an’ snuffin’ liorseredisli at one an’ the same 
time.” 

“Hoav’s that, John?” said David, laughing. 

“I suppose it’s an acquired taste,” said John, return¬ 
ing the laugh and taking a mouthful of the wine with 
infinite relish. “I don’t think I e\ r er enjoyed a glass 
of wine so much, or,” turning to Aunt Polly, “ever 
enjoyed a dinner so much”; which statement com¬ 
pletely mollified her feelings, which had been the least 
bit in the world “set edgeways.” 


DAVID HA HUM 


228 

“Mebbe your app’tite’s got somethin’ to do with it,” 
said David, shoveling a knife-load of good things into 
his mouth. “Polly, this young man’s ben livin’ on 
crackers an’ salt herrin’ fer a week.” 

“My land ! ” cried Mrs. Bixbee, with an expression of 
horror. ‘Ms that reelly so? ’Tain’t now, reelly?” 

“Not quite so bad as that,” John answered, smiling; 
“but Mrs. Elriglit has been ill for a couple of days and 
—well, T have been foraging around Purse’s store a 
little.” 

“Wa’al, of all the mean shames!” exclaimed Aunt 
Polly indignantly. “David Harum, you’d ought to be 
ridic’lous t’ allow such a thing.” 

“Wa’al, I never!” said David, holding his knife and 
fork straight up in either list as they rested on the 
table, and staring at his sister. “I believe if the 
meetin’-house roof was to blow off you’d lay it onto me 
somehow. I hain’t ben runnin’ the Eagle tavern fer 
quite a consid’able while. You got the wrong pig by 
the ear, as usual. Jes’ you pitch into him,” pointing 
with his fork to John. “It’s his funeral, if anybody’s.” 

“Wa’al,” said Aunt Polly, addressing John in a tone 
of injury, “I do think you might have let somebody 
know ; I think you’d orter’ve known—” 

“Yes, Mrs. Bixbee,” he interrupted, “I did know how 
kind you are and would have been, and if matters had 
gone on so much longer I should have appealed to you 
— I should have, indeed ; but really,” he added, smiling 
at her, “a dinner like this is worth fasting a week for.” 

“Wa’al,” she said, mollified again, “you won’t git no 
more herrin’ ’nless you ask fer ’em.” 

“That is just what your brother said this morning,” 
replied John, looking at David with a laugh. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


The meal proceeded in silence for a few minutes. Mrs. 
Cullom had said but little, but John noticed that her 
diction was more conventional than in her talk with 
David and himself in the morning, and that her man¬ 
ner at the table was distinctly refined, although she ate 
with apparent appetite, not to say hunger. Presently 
she said, with an air of making conversation, “I sup¬ 
pose you’ve always lived in the city, Mr. Lenox?” 

“It has always been my home,” he replied, “but I 
have been away a good deal.” 

“I suppose folks iu the city go to theaters a good 
deal,” she remarked. 

“They have a great many opportunities,” said John, 
wondering what she was leading up to. But he was 
not to discover, for David broke in with a chuckle. 

“Ask Polly, Mis’ Cullom,” he said. “She c’n tell ye 
all about the theater, Polly kin.” 

Mrs. Cullom looked from David to Mrs. Bixbee, 
whose face was suffused. 

“Tell her,” said David, with a grin. 

“I wish you’d shet up !” she exclaimed. “I sha’n’t 
do nothin’ of the sort.” 


“Ne’ mind,” said David cheerfully, “/’// tell ye, Mis’ 
Cullom.” 

“Dave Haruin!” expostulated Mrs. Bixbee; but lie 
proceeded without heed of her protest. 

“Polly an’ I,” he said, “went down to New York one 
spring some years ago. Her nerves was some wore out 
’long of differences with Sairy about clearin’ up the 


2 3 ° 


DAVID HARUM 


woodshed, an’ bread-risin’s, an’ not bein’ able to suit 
herself up to Purse’s in the qual’ty of silk velvit she 
wanted fer a Sunday-go-to-meetin’ gown, an’ I thought 
a spell off’d do her good. Wa’al, the day after we 
got there I says to her while we was havin’ breakfast— 
it was picked-up el’phant on toast, near’s I c’n remem¬ 
ber, wa’n’t it, Polly?” 

“That’s as near the truth as most o’ the rest on’t so 
fur,” said Polly, with a sniff. 

“Wa’al, I says to her,” he proceeded, untouched by 
her scorn, “‘flow’d you like to go t’ the theater? You 
hain’t never ben,’ I says, ‘ an’ now you’re down here, 

you may jest as well 
see somethin’ while 
you got a chanst,’ I 
says. Up to that 
time” he remarked, 
as it were in passing, 
“she’d ben somewhat 
pr ejnced ’ginst the¬ 
aters, an’—” 

“Wa’al,” Mrs. Bix- 
bee broke in, “I guess what we see that night was 
cal’lated—” 

“You hold on,” he interposed. “I’m tellin’ this 
story. You had a chanst to an’ wouldn’t. Anyway,” 
he resumed, “she allowed she’d try it once, an’ we 
agreed we’d go somewheres that night. But somethin’ 
happened to put it out o’ my mind, an’ I didn’t think 
on’t agin till I got back to the hotel fer supper. So I 
went to the feller at the news-stand, an’ says, ‘Got any 
show-tickits fer to-night?’ 

“ ‘ Theater ? ’ he says. 
















DAVID HARUM 


231 


“‘I reckon so,’ I says. 

7 

“‘Wa’al,’ lie says, ‘I liain’t got nothin’ now but two 
seats fer Clyanthy.’ 

‘“Is it a good show?’ I says—‘ moral an’ so on? I’m 
goin’ to take iny sister, an’ she’s a little pertic’ler about 
some things,’ I says. He kind o’ grinned, the feller 
did. D’ve took my wife twice, an’ she’s putty pertic’ler 
herself,’ he says, laughin’.” 

“She must ’a’ ben,” remarked Mrs. Bixbee, with a 
sniff that spoke volumes of her opinion of “the feller’s 
wife.” 

David emitted a chuckle. “Wa’al,” he continued, 
“I took the tickits on the feller’s recommend an’ the 
fact of his wife’s bein’ so pertic’ler, an’ after supper we 
went. It was a mighty handsome place inside, gilded 
an’ carved all over like the outside of a cirkis wagin, 
an’ when we went in the orchestry was playin’ an’ the 
people was cornin’ in, an’ after we’d set a few minutes 
I says to Polly, ‘What do you think on’t?’ I says. 

“‘I don’t see anythin’ very unbecomin’ so fur, an’ the 
people looks respectable enough,’ she says. 

“‘No jail-birds in sight fur’s ye c’11 see so fur, be 
they ? ’ I says. He, he, he, he ! ” 

“You needn’t make me out more of a gump ’n I 
was,” protested Mrs. Bixbee. “An’ you was jest as—” 

David held up his finger at her. “Don’t you spile 
the story by discountin’ the sequil. Wa’al, putty soon 
the band struck up some kind of a dancin’ tune, an’ the 
curt’in went up, an’ a girl come prancin’ down to the 
footlights an’ begun singin’ an’ dancin’, an’, scat my— ! 
to all human appearances, you c’d ’a’ covered ev’ry 
dum thing she had on with a postage-stamp.” 

John stole a glance at Mrs. Cullom. She was staring 
32 


232 DAVID HARUM 

at the speaker with wide-open eyes of horror and 
amazement. 

“I guess I wouldn’t go very fur into pertic’lers,” said 
Mrs. Bixbee in a warning tone. 

David bent his head down over his plate and shook 
from head to foot, and it was nearly a minute before 

he was able to go on. “AVa’al,” he said, 
“I heard Polly give a kind of a gasp an’ 
a snort, ’s if some one’d throwed water 
’n her face. But she didn’t say nothin’, 
an’, I swan ! I didn’t dast to look at her 
fer a spell; an’ putty soon in come a hull 
crowd more girls that had left their clo’es 
in their trunks or somewhere, singin’ an’ 
dancin’ an’ weavin’ round on the stage, 
an’ after a few minutes I turned an’ looked at Polly. 
He, he, he, he ! ” 

“David Harum ! ” cried Mrs. Bixbee, “ef you’re goin’ 
to discribe any more o’ them scand’lous goin’s on I sh’ll 
take my victuals into the kitchin. T didn’t see no 
more of ’em,” she added to Mrs. Cullom and John, 
“after that fust trollop appeared.” 

“I don’t believe she did,” said David, “fer when I 
turned she set there with her eyes shet tighter ’n a 
drum, an’ her mouth shet, too, so’s her nose an’ chin 
’most come together, an’ her face was red enough so’t 
a streak o’ red paint ’d ’a’ made a white mark on it. 

‘Polly,’ I says, ‘I’m afraid you ain’t gettin’ the wuth o’ 
your money.’ 

“‘David Harum,’ she says, with her mouth shet all 
but a little place in the corner toward me, ‘if you 
don’t take me out o’ this place, I’ll go without ye,’ she 
says. 










“We sneaked up the aisle.’ 













DAVID HA RUM 


2 33 


iU Don’t you think you c’d stan’ it a little longer?’ 
I says. ‘Mebbe they’ve sent home fer their clo’es,’ I 
says. He, he, he, he ! But with that she jes’ give a 
hump to start, an’ I see she meant bus’nis. When 
Polly Bixbee,” said David impressively, “puts that 



foot o’ hern down somethin’s got to squsk, an don’t 
you fergit it.” 

Mrs. Bixbee made no acknowledgment ol this trib¬ 
ute to her strength of character. John looked at 
David. 










2 3 + 


DAVID HARUM 


“Yes,” lie said, with a solemn bend of the head, as if 
in answer to a question, “I squshed. I says to her, 
‘All right. Don’t make no disturbance more’n you 

o v 

c’n help, an’ jes’ put your liank’ehif up to your nose \s 
if you had the nose-bleed ’; an’ we squeezed out of the 
seats an’ sneaked up the aisle, an’ by the time we got 
out into the entry I guess my face was as red as Polly’s. 
It couldn’t ’a’ ben no redder,” he added. 

“You got a putty fair color as a gen’ral thing,” re¬ 
marked Mrs. Bixbee dryly. 

“Yes, ma’am; yes, ma’am, I expect that’s so,” he 
assented, “but I got an extry coat o’ tan follerin’ you 
out o’ that theater. When we got out into the entry, 
one o’ them fellers that stands round steps up to me, 
an’ says, ‘Ain’t your 111a feel in’ well?’ he says. ‘Her 
feelin’s has ben a trifle rumpled up,’ I says, ‘an’ that 
gen’ally brings on the nose-bleed’; an’ then,” said David, 
looking over Mrs. Bixbee’s head, “the feller went an’ 
leaned up agin the wall.” 

“David Harum!” exclaimed Mrs. Bixbee, “that’s a 
downright lie! You never spoke to a soul, an’—an’ — 
ev’rybody knows 't I ain’t more’n four years older ’n 
you be.” 

“Wa’al, you see, Polly,” her brother replied in a 
smooth tone of measureless aggravation, “the feller 
wa’n’t. acquainted with us, an’ he only went by appear¬ 
ances.” 

Aunt Polly appealed to John : “Ain’t he enough to 
— to — I d’ know what?” 

“I really don’t see how you live with him,” said 
John, laughing. 

Mrs. Cullom’s face wore a faint smile, as if she 
were conscious that something amusing was going 


DAVID HARUM 




2 3 ? 



on, but was not quite sure what. The widow took 
things seriously for the most part, poor soul. 

kt I reckon you haven’t followed theater-goiif much 
after that/' she said to her hostess. 

“No, ma’am/’ Mrs. Bixbee replied with emphasis, 
“you better believe I liain’t. I hain’t 
never thought of it sence without ting¬ 
lin’ all over. I believe/’ she asserted, 

“that David'd ’a’ stayed the thing 
out if it hadn’t ben fer me j but 
as true ’s you live, Cynthy Cul- 
lom, 1 was so ’shamed at the 
little’t I did see that whei 
I come to go to bed I 
my elo’es off in the dark.” 

David threw back his 
head and roared with 
laughter. Mrs. Bixbee 
looked at him with un¬ 
mixed scorn. “If I could¬ 
n’t help makin’ a—” she 
began, “I’d—” 

“O Lord ! Polly,” David 
broke in, “be sure ’n’ wrap 
up when you go out. If you sh’d ketch cold an’ your 
sense o’ the ridic’lous sh’d strike in you’d be a dead-’n’- 




goner sure. 


This was treated with the silent contempt which 
it deserved, and David fell upon his dinner with the 
remark that he “guessed he’d better make up fer lost 
time,” though as a matter of fact, while he had done 
most of the talking, he had by no means suspended 
another function of his mouth while so engaged. 


DAVID HARUM 


236 

For a time nothing more was said which did not 
relate to the replenishment of plates, glasses, and cups. 
Finally David cleaned up his plate with his knife-blade 
and a piece of bread, and pushed it away with a sigh 
of fullness mentally echoed by John. 

“I feel ’s if a child could play with me/’ he re¬ 
marked. “What’s coinin’ now, Polly?” 

“Tlie’s a mince-pie, an’ Injun puddin’ with maple 
sugar an’ cream, an’ ice-cream,” she replied. 

“Mercy on us!” he exclaimed. “I guess I’ll have 
to go an’ jump up an’ down on the verandy. How do 
you feel, John? I s’pose you got so used to them 
things at the Eagle’t yon won’t have no stomeeli fer 
’em, eh ? Wa’al, fetch ’em along. May’s well die fer 
the ole sheep's the lamb; but, Polly Bixbee, if you’ve 
got designs on my life, 1 may’s well tell ye right now’t 
I've left all my prop’ty to the Institution fer Disap- 
p’inted I loss-swappers.” 

“That’s putty near next o’ kin, ain’t it?” was the 
unexpected rejoinder of the injured Polly. 

“Wa’al, scat my — !" exclaimed David, hugely 
amused, “if Polly Bixbee liain't made a joke ! You’ll 
git yourself into the almanic, Polly, fust thing you 
know.” 

Sairy brought in the pie and then the pudding. 

“John,” said David, “if you’ve got a pencil an’ a 
piece o’ paper handy I'd like to have ye take down 
a few of my last words ’fore we proceed to the pie 
an’ puddin’ bus’nis. Any more ‘hossredisli’ in that 
bottle?” holding out his glass. “Hi! hi! that’s 
enough. You take the rest on’t”; which John did, 
nothing loath. 

David ate his pie in silence, but before he made up 


DAVID HARUM 


2 37 


his mind to attack the pudding, which was his favorite 
confection, he gave an audible chuckle, which elicited 
Mrs. Bixbee’s notice. 

“What you gigglin’ ’bout now?” she asked. 

David laughed. “I was thinkin’ of somethin’ I 
heard up to Purse’s last night,” he said as he covered 
his pudding with the thick cream sauce. “Amri 
Shapless has ben gittin’ married.” 

“Wa’al, 1 declare!” she exclaimed. “That ole 
shack ! Who in creation could he git to take him?” 

“’Lize Annis is the lucky woman,” replied David, 
with a grin. 

“Wa’al, if that don’t beat all!” said Mrs. Bixbee, 
throwing up her hands, and even from Mrs. Cullom 
was drawn a “ Well, I never!” 

“Fact,” said David ; “they was married yestid’y fore¬ 
noon. Squire Parker done the job. Dominie White 
wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with it!” 

“Squire Parker’d orter be ’shamed of himself,” said 
Mrs. Bixbee indignantly. 

“Don’t you think that trew love had ought to be 
allowed to take its course?” asked David, with an air 
of sentiment. 

“I think the squire’d orter be ’shamed of himself,” 
she reiterated. “S’pose them two old skinamulinks 
was to go an’ have children?” 

“Polly, you make me blush !” protested her brother. 
“Hain’t you got no respect fer the holy institution of 
matrimuny?—an’—et cetry?” he added, wiping his 
whole face with his napkin. 

“Much as you hev, I reckon,” she retorted. “Of all 
the amazin’ things in this world, the amazin’ist to me 
is the kind of people that gits married to each other 


238 DAVID HARUM 

in general; but this here performeuce beats ev’rytliin’ 
holler.” 

“ Amri give a very good reason for’t,” said David, with 
an air of conviction, and then he broke into a laugh. 

“Ef you got anythin’ to tell, tell it,” said Mrs. Bix- 
bee impatiently. 

“Wa’al,” said David, taking the last of his pudding 
into his mouth, “if you insist 011’t, painful as ’tis. I 
heard Dick Larrabee tellin’ ’bout it, Amri told Dick, 
day before vest id’y, that he was thinkin’ of gettin’ 
married, an’ ast him to go along with him to Parson 
White’s an’ be a witniss an’, I reckon, a kind of moral 
support. When it comes to moral supportin’,” re¬ 
marked David in passing, “Dick’s as good’s a profes¬ 
sional, an’ he’d go an’ see his gran’mother hung sooner 
’n miss anythin’, an’ never let his cigar go out durin’ 
the performeuce. Dick said he congratilated Am on 
his choice, an’ said he reckoned they’d be putty ekally 
yoked together, if nothin’ else.” 

Here David leaned over toward Aunt Polly and said 
protestingly, “Don’t gi’ me but jest a teasp’nful o’ that 
ice cream. I’m so full now’t I can’t hardly reach the 
table.” He took a taste of the cream and resumed : “I 
can’t give it jest as Dick did,” he went on, “but this is 
about the gist on’t. Him an’ ’Lize an’ Am went to 
Parson White’s about half after seven o’clock, an’ was 
showed into the parler, an’ in a minute he come in, an’ 
after sayin’ ‘Good-evenin” all round, he says, ‘Well, 
what c’11 I do for ye?’ lookin’ at Am an’ ’Lize, an’ 
then at Dick. 

“‘Wa’al,’ says Am, ‘me an’ Mis’ Annis here has 
ben thinkin’ fer some time as how we’d orter git 
married.’ 


DAVID HARUM 


2 39 

uc Ought to git married ? ’ says Parson White, scowlin’ 
fust at one an’ then at t’other. 

“‘Wa’al,’ says Am, giviif a kind o’ shuffle with his 
feet, ‘I didn’t mean orter exae’ly, but jest as well— 



kinder comp’ny,’ he says. ‘We hain’t neither on us 
got nobody, an’ we thought we might’s well.’ 

‘“What have you got to git married on?’ says the 
dominie, after a minute. ‘Anythin’?’ he says. 

“‘Wa’al,’ says Am, droppin’ his head sideways an’ 
borin’ into his ear ’ith his middle finger, ‘I got the 
promise mebbe of a job o’ work fer a couple o’ days 
33 















240 


DAVID HARUM 


next week.’ ‘H’m’m’m,’ says tlie dominie, lookin’ at 
Mm. ‘Have you got anythin’ to git married on?’ the 
dominie says, turnin’ to ’Lize. ‘I’ve got ninety cents 
coinin’ to me fer some work I done last week,’ she says, 
wiltin’ down onto the sofv an beginnin’ to snivvle. 
Hick says that at that the dominie turned round an’ 
walked to the other end of the room, an’ he c’d see he was 
dyin’ to laugh, but he come back with a straight face. 

“‘How old air you, Shapless?’ he says to Am. ‘I’ll 
be fifty-eight or mebbe fifty-nine, come next spring,’ 
says Am. 

“‘How old air youV the dominie says, turnin’ to 
’Lize. She wriggled a minute an’ says, ‘Wa’al, I 
reckon I’m all o’ thirty,’ she says.” 

“All o’ thirty! ” exclaimed Aunt Polly. “The 
woman’s ’most’s old’s I be.” 

David laughed and went on with, “Wa’al, Dick said 
at that the dominie give a kind of a choke, an’ Dick he 
bust right out, an’ ’Lize looked at him as if she c’d eat 
him. Dick said the dominie didn’t say anythin’ fer a 
minute or two, an’ then he says to Am, ‘I suppose you 
c’11 find somebody that’ll marry you, but I cert’inly 
won’t; an’ what possesses you to commit such a piece o’ 
folly,’ he says, ‘ passes my understandin’. What earthly 
reason have you fer wantin’ to marry? O11 your own 
showin’,’ he says, ‘neither one 011 you’s got a cent o’ 
money or any settled way o’ gettin’ any.’ 

“‘That’s jes’ the very reason,’ says Am, ‘that’s jes’ 
the very reason. I hain’t got nothin’, an’ Mis’ Annis 
liain’t got nothin’, an’ we figured that we’d jes’ better 
git married an’ settle down, an’ make a good home fer 
us both.’ An 1 if that ain’t good reasonin’,” David com 
eluded, “I don’t know what is.” 


DAVID HARUM 


241 

u An’ be they actially married?” asked Mrs. Bixbee, 
still incredulous of anything so preposterous. 

“So Dick says/’ was the reply. “He says Am an’ 
’Lize come away f’m the dominie’s putty down in the 
mouth, but ’fore long Amri braced up an’ allowed that 
if he had half a dollar he’d try the squire in the 
mornin’, an’ Dick let him have it. I says to Dick, 
“You’re out fifty cents on that deal,’ an’ he says, slap- 
pin.’ his leg, c l don’t give a dum,’ he says 5 ‘I wouldn’t 
’a’ missed it fer double the mouey.’ ” 

Here David folded his napkin and put it in the ring, 
and John finished the cup of clear coffee which Aunt 
Polly, rather under protest, had given him. Coffee 
without cream and sugar was incomprehensible to Mrs. 
Bixbee. 


CHAPTER XXV 


Two or three days after Christmas John was sitting 
in his room in the evening when there came a knock 
at the door, and to his “Come in” there entered Mr. 
Harum, who was warmly welcomed and entreated to 
take the big chair, which, after a cursory survey of the 
apartment and its furnishings, he did, saying, “Wa’al, 
I thought I’d come in an’ see how Polly’d got you 
fixed ; whether the baskit [casket?] was worthy of the 
jew’l, as I heard a feller say in a theater once.” 


“I was never more comfortable in my life,” said 
John. “Mrs. Bixbee has been kindness itself, and even 
permits me to smoke in the room. Let me give you a 
cigar.” 

“Hell! You got putty well round Polly, I reckon,” 
said David, looking around the room as he lighted the 
cigar, “an’ Pm glad you’re comf’table. I reckon ’tis 
a shade better ’n the Eagle,” he remarked, with his 
characteristic ehuekle. 

“I should say so,” said John emphatically, “and I 
am more obliged than I can tell you.” 

“All Polly’s doin’s,” asserted David, holding the end 
of his cigar critically under his nose. “That’s a trifle 
better article ’n I’m in the habit of smokin’” he 

7 

remarked. 

“I think it’s my one extravagance,” said John semi- 
apologetically, “but I don’t smoke them exclusively. I 
am very fond of good tobacco, and—” 

“I understand,” said David, “an’ if I had my life to 


DAVID HARUM 


2 43 

live over agin, knowin’ what I do now, I’d do different 
in a number o’ ways. I often think,” lie proceeded, as 
he took a pull at the cigar and emitted the smoke with 
a chewing movement of his mouth, “of what Andy 
Brown used to say. Andy was a curious kind of a cus¬ 
tomer ’t I used to know up to Syrchester. He liked 
good things, Andy did, an’ didn’t scrimp himself when 
they was to be had—that is, when he had the go-an’- 
fetch-it to git ’em with. He used to say, ‘Boys, when¬ 
ever you git holt of a ten-dollar note you want to git it 
into ye or onto ye jest ’s quick’s you kin. We’re here 
to-day an’ gone to-morrer,’ he’d say, ‘an’ the’ ain’t no 
pocket in a shroud.’ An’ I’m dum’d if I don’t think 
sometimes,” declared Mr. Harum, “that he wa’n’t very 
fur off, neither. ’T any rate,” he added, with a philoso¬ 
phy unexpected by his hearer, “’s I look back, it ain’t 
the money’t I’ve spent fer the good times’t I’ve had’t 
I regret; it’s the good times ’t I might ’s well ’ve had 
an’ didn’t. I’m inclined to think,” he remarked, with 
an air of having given the matter consideration, “that 
after Adam an’ Eve got bounced out of the gard’n they 
kicked themselves as much as anythin’ fer not havin’ 
cleaned up the hull tree while they was about it.” 

John laughed and said that that was very likely 
among their regrets. 

“Trouble with me was,” said David, “that, till I was 
consid’able older ’n you be, I had to scratch grav’l like 
all possessed, an’ it’s hard work now sometimes to git 
the idee out of my head but what the money’s wuth 
more’n the things. I guess,” he remarked, looking at 
the ivory-backed brushes and the various toilet knick- 
knacks of cut glass and silver which adorned John’s 
bureau, and indicating them with a motion of his hand, 


2 44 


DAVID HARUM 


“that up to about now you beu in the habit of figurin’ 
the other way mostly.” 

“Too much so, perhaps,” said Johu ; “but yet, after 
all, I don’t think I am sorry. I wouldn’t spend the 
money for those things now, but I am glad I bought 
them when I did.” 

“Jes’ so, jes’ so,” said David appreciatively. He 
reached over to the table and laid his cigar on the 
edge of a book, and, reaching for his hip pocket, pro¬ 
duced a silver tobacco-box, at which he looked con¬ 
templatively for a moment, opening and shutting the 
lid with a snap. 

“There,” he said, holding it out on his palm 5 “I was 
twenty years makin’ up my mind to buy that box, an’ 
to this day I can’t bring myself to carry it all the time. 
Yes, sir, I wanted that box fer twenty years. I don’t 
mean to say that I didn’t spend the wuth of it foolishly 
times over an’ agin, but I couldn’t never make up my 
mind to put that amount o’ money into that pertic’ler 
thing. I was alwus figurin’ that some day I’d have a 
silver tobacco-box, an’ I sometimes think the reason it 
seemed so extrav’gant, an’ I put it off so long, was 
because I wanted it so much. Now I s’pose you 
couldn’t understand that, could ye?” 

“Yes,” said John, nodding his head thoughtfully, “I 
think I can understand it perfectly ” j and indeed it 
spoke pages of David’s biography. 

“Yes, sir,” said David, “I never spent a small 
amount o’ money but one other time an’ got so much 
value, only I alwus ben kickin' myself to think I didn’t 
do it sooner.” 

“Perhaps,” suggested John, “you enjoyed it all the 
more for waiting so long.” 


DAVID HARUM 


2 4 $ 

“No,” said David, “it wa’n’t that. I dunno—’twas 
the feelin’ ’t I’d got there at last, I guess. Fur ’s 
waitin’ fer things is concerned, the’ is such a thing as 
waitin’ too long. Your appetite ’ll change, inebbe. I 
used to think, when I was a youngster, that if ever I 
got where I c’d have all the custard-pie I c’d eat that’d 
be all ’t I’d ask fer. I used to imagine bein’ baked 
into one an’ eatin’ my way out. Now’days tlie’s a good 
many things I’d sooner have than custard-pie—though,” 
he said with a wink, “I gen’ally do eat two pieces jes’ 
to please Polly.” 

John laughed. “What was the other thing?” he 
asked. 

“Other thing I once bought?” queried David. “Oh, 
yes ; it was the fust lioss I ever owned. I give fifteen 
dollars fer him, an’ if he wa’n’t a dandy you needn’t 
pay me a cent. Crowbait wa’n’t no name fer him. He 
was stun-blind on the off side, an’ couldn’t see anythin’ 
in pertic’ler on the nigh side—couldn’t get nigh ’nough, 
I reckon—an’ had ’most ev’rytliin’ wrong with him 
that c’d ail a lioss. But I thought he was a thorough¬ 
bred. I was ’bout seventeen year old then, an’ was 
helpin’ lock-tender on the Erie Canal, an’ when the’ 
wa’n’t no boat goin’ through I put in most o’ my time 
cleanin’ that hoss. If he got through ’th less ’n six 
times a day he got off cheap, an’ once I got up an’ give 
him a little attention at night. Yes, sir, if I got big 
money’s wutli out o’ that box it was mostly a matter of 
feelin’; but as fur’s that old plugamore of a hoss was 
concerned, I got it both ways, fer I got my fust real 
start out of his old carkiss.” 

“Yes?” said John encouragingly. 

“Yes, sir,” affirmed David. “I cleaned him up, an’ 


DAVID HARUM 


246 


fed him up, an’ almost got ’im so’st he c’d see enough 
out of his left eye to shy at a load of hay close by; an’ 

finely traded him off 
fer another record- 
breaker an’ 
fifteen dollars 
to boot.” 


‘■X 



r 


Were 
you as en¬ 
thusiastic 
over the 
next one as the 
first?” asked John, 

laughing. 

“Wa’al,” replied David, re¬ 
lighting his temporarily aban¬ 
doned cigar against a protest 
and proffer of a fresh one, “wa’al, lie didn’t lay holt 
on my affections to quite the same extent. I done my 
duty by him, but I didn’t set up with him nights. You 
see,” he added, with a grin, “I’d got some used to bein’ 
a hoss-owner, an’ the edge had wore off some.” He 
smoked for a minute or two in silence, with as much 
apparent relish as if the cigar had not been stale. 

“Aren’t you going on?” asked John at last. 




DAVID HA RUM 


2 47 

“Wa’al,” he replied, pleased with his audience, “I 
c’d go on, I s’pose, fast enough an’ fur enough, but I 
don’t want to tire ye out. I reckon ye never had 
much to do with canals?” 

“No,” said John, smiling, “I can’t say that I have, 
but I know something about the subject in a general 
way, and there is no fear of your tiring me out.” 

“All right,” proceeded David. “As I was sayin’, I 
got another equine wonder an’ fifteen dollars to boot 
fer my ole plug, an’ it wa’n’t a great while before I 
was in the hoss bus’nis to stay. After between two an’ 
three years I had fifty or sixty hosses an’ mules, an’ 
took all sorts of towin’ jobs. Then a big towin’ con¬ 
cern quit bus’nis, an’ I bought their hull stock an’ got 
my money back three four times over, an’ by the time 
I was about twenty-one I had got ahead enough to quit 
the canal an’ all its works fer good, an’ go into other 
things. But there was where I got my livin’ after T 
run away f’m Buxton Hill. Before I got the job of 
lock-tendin’ I had made the trip to Albany an’ back 
twice— i walkin’ my passage,’ as they used to call it; 
an’ I made one trip helpin’ steer, so’t my canal ex¬ 
perience was putty thorough, take it all round.” 

“It must have been a pretty hard life,” remarked 
John. 

David took out his penknife and proceeded to im¬ 
pale his cigar upon the blade thereof. “No,” he said, 
to John’s proffer of the box, “this ’ll last quite a spell 
yet. Wa’al,” he resumed after a moment, in reply to 
John’s remark, “viewin’ it all by itself, it was a hard 
life. A thing is hard, though, I reckon, because it’s 
harder ’n somethin’ else, or you think so. Most things 
go by comparin’. I s’pose if the gen’ral run of trotters 
34 


248 DAVID HARUM 

never got better ’n three hi’ a half, that a boss that c'd 
do it in three ’d be fast, but we don’t call ’em so now’- 
days. I s’pose if at that same age you’d had to tackle 
the life you’d ’a’ found it hard, an’ the’ was hard things 
about it—trampin’ all night in the rain, fer instance, 
sleepin’ in barns at times, an’ all that; an’ once the 
cap’n o’ the boat got mad at somethin’ an’ pitched me 
head over heels into the canal. It was about the close 
of navigation, an’ the’ was a scum of ice. I scrambled 
out somehow, but he wouldn’t ’a’ cared if I’d ben 
drownded. He was an exception, though. The 
canalers was a rough set in gen’ral, but they averaged 
fer disposition ’bout like the ord’nary run o’ folks j the’ 
was mean ones an’ clever ones; them that would put 
upon ye, an’ them that would treat ye decent. The 
work was hard an’ the grub wasn’t alwus much better ’n 
what you—he, he, he !—what you ben gettin’ at the 
Eagle” (John was now by the way of rather relishing 

jokes on that 
subject)but 
I hadn’t ben 
raised in the 
lap o’ luxury 
— not to any 

consid’able extent, not enough to stick my nose up 
much. The men I worked fer was rough, an’ I got 
my share of cusses an’ cuffs, an’ once in a while 
a kick to keep up my spirit of perseverance j but, 
on the hull, I think I got more kindness ’n I did 
at home (leavin’ Polly out) ; an’ as fer gen’ral treat¬ 
ment, none on ’em c'd come up to my father, an’, 
wuss yet, my oldest brother, ’Lish. The cap’n that 
throwed me overboard was the wust, but alongside o’ 







DAVID HARUM 


249 

'Lish lie was a forty hoss-power angil with a hull music 
store o 1 harps; an’ ev en my father chi ’a’ given him 
cards an’ spades ; an 7 as fer the victuals’ 7 —(here David 
dropped his cigar-end and pulled from his pocket the 
silver tobacco-box)— “as fer the victuals/’ he repeated, 
“they mostly averaged up putty high after what I’d 
ben used to. Why, I don’t believe I ever tasted a 
piece of beefsteak or roast beef in my life till after I 
left home. When we had meat at all it was pork — 
boiled pork, fried pork, pigs’ liver, an’ all that—enough 
to make you ’shamed to look a pig in the face ; an’ fer 
the rest, potatoes, an’ duff, an’ johnny-cake, an’ meal 
mush, an’ milk-emptins bread that you c’d smell a mile 
after it got cold. With ’leven folks on a small farm 
nothin’ c’d afford to be eat that c’d be sold, an’ ev’ry- 
thin’ that couldn’t be sold had to be eat. Once in a 
while the’ ’d be pie of some kind, or gingerbread; but 
with ’leven to eat ’em I didn’t ever git more’11 enough 
to set me hankerin’.” 

“I must say that I think I should have liked the 
canal better,” remarked John as David paused. “You 
were, at any rate, more or less free—that is, compara¬ 
tively, I should say.” 

“Yes, sir, I did,” said David, “an’ I never see the 
time, no matter how rough things was, that I wished I 
was back on Buxton Hill. I used to want to see Polly 
putty bad once in a while, an’ used to figure that if I 
ever growed up to be a man, an’ had money enough, 
I’d buy her a new pair o’ shoes an’ the stuff fer a dress, 
an’ sometimes my cal’lations went as fur’s a gold breast¬ 
pin ; but I never wanted to see none o’ the rest on ’em, 
an’, fer that matter, I never did. Yes, sir, the old ditch 
was better to me than the place I was horned in, an’, 


250 


DAVID HARUM 


as you say, I wa’n’t nobody’s slave, an’ I wa’n’t scairt 
to death the hull time. Some o’ the men was rough, 
but they wa’n’t cruel, as a rule, an’ as I growed up a 
little I was putty well able to look out fer myself. 
Wa’al, wa’al,” (looking at his watch), “I guess you must 
’a’ had enough o’ my meemores fer one sittin’.” 

“No, really,” John protested, “don’t go yet. I have 
a little proposal to make to you ” ; and he got up and 
brought a bottle from the bottom of the wash-stand. 

“Wa’al,” said David, “lire it out.” 

“That you take another cigar and a little of this,” 
holding up the bottle. 

“Got any glasses'?” asked David, with practical 


mind. 

“One, and a tooth-mug,” replied John, laughing. 
“Glass for you, tooth-mug for me. Tastes just as 
good out of a tooth-mug.” 

“Wa’al,” said David, with a comical air of yielding 
as he took the glass and held it out to John, “under 
protes’, stric’ly under protes’—sooner than have my 
clo’es torn. I shall tell Polly—if I should happen to 
mention it—that you threatened me with vi’lence. 
Wa’al, here’s lookin’ at ye ” ; which toast was drunk 
with the solemnity which befitted it. 





CHAPTER XXVI 

The two men sat for a while smoking in silence, John 
taking an occasional sip of his grog. Mr. Harnm had 
swallowed his own liquor “raw,” as was the custom in 
Homeville and vicinity, following the potation with a 
mouthful of water. Presently he settled a little farther 
down in his chair and his face took on a smile of amused 
recollection. 

He looked up and gave a short laugh. “Speakin’ of 
canals,” he said, as if the subject had only been casually 
mentioned, “I was thinkin’ of somethin’.” 

“Yes'?” said John. 

a E-up,” said David. “That old ditch f’m Albany to 
Buffalo was an almighty big enterprise in them days, 
an’ a great thing fer the prosperity of the State, an’ a 
good many better men ’n I be walked the ole tow-path 
when they was young. Yes, sir, that’s a fact. Wa’al, 
some years ago I had somethin’ of a deal on with a 
Xew York man by the name of Price. He had a place 
in Newport, where his fam’ly spent the summer, an’ 
where lie went as much as he could git away. I was 
down to Xew York to see him, an’ we hadn’t got 
things quite straightened out, an’ he says to me, ‘I’m 





DAVID HARUM 


2 “2 


goin’ over to Newiiort, where my wife an’ fam’ly is, fer 
Sunday, an’ why can’t ye come with me,’ he says, ‘an’ 
stay over till Monday, an’ we c’n have the day to our¬ 
selves over this matter'?’ ‘Wa’al,’ I says, ‘I’m only 
down here on this bus’nis, an’ as I left a hen on, up 
home, I’m willin’ to save the time ’stid of waitin’ here 
fer you to git back, if you don’t think,’ I says, ‘that 
it’ll put Mis’ Price out any to bring home a stranger 
without no notice.’ 

“‘Wa’al,’ lie says, laughin’, ‘I guess she c’n manage 
fer once. 1 An’ so I went along. When we got there 
the’ was a carriage to meet us, an’ two men in 
uniform, one to drive an’ one to open the door, 
an’ we got in an’ rode up to the house 
—cottige, he called it, but it was built 
of stone, an’ wa’n’t only about two sizes 
fe. smaller ’n the Fifth Avenue Hotel. 



Some kind o’ doin’s was goin’ on, fer 
the house was blazin’ with light, an’ 
music was playin’. 

“‘What’s on?’ says Price to the 
feller that let us in. 

“‘Sir and Lady Somebody’s dinin’ here to-night, sir,’ 
says the man. 

“‘Damn!’ says Price, ‘I fergot all about the cussed 
thing. Have Mr. Harum showed to a room,’ he says, 
‘an’ serve dinner in my office in a quarter of an hour, 
an’ have somebody show Mr. Harum there when it’s 
ready.’ 

“Wa’al,” pursued David, “I was showed up to a 
room. The’ was lace coverin’s on the bed-pillers, an’ a 
silk-an’-lace spread, an’ more dum trinkits an’ bottles 
an’ lookin’-glasses ’n you c’d shake a stick at, an’ a 


DAVID HARUM 


2 53 


bath-room, an’ Lord knows what; an’ I washed up, an’ 
putty soon one o’ them fellers come an’ showed me 
down to where Price was waitin’. Wa’al, we had all 
manner o’ things fer supper, an’ champagne, an’ so on, 
an’ after we got done, Price says, ‘ I’ve got to ask ye to 
excuse me, Harum,’ lie says. ‘I’ve got to go an’ dress 
an’ show up in the drawin’-room,’ he says. ‘You 
smoke your cigar in here, an’ when ye want to go to 
yer room jes’ ring the bell.’ 

“‘All right,’ I says. ‘I’m ’bout ready to turn in, 
anyway.’ ” 

The narrator paused for a moment. John was rather 
wondering what it all had to do with the Erie Canal, 
but he said nothing. 

“Wa’al, next mornin’,” David resumed, “I got up 
an’ shaved an’ dressed, an’ set round waitin’ fer the 
breakfust-bell to ring till nigh on to half past nine 
o’clock. Bom-by the’ came a knock at the door, an’ I 
says, ‘Come in,’ an’ in come one o’ them fellers. ‘Beg 
pah’din, sir,’ he says. ‘Did you ring, sir?’ 

“‘No,’ I says, ‘I didn’t ring. I was waitin’ to hear 
the bell.’ 

“‘Thank ye, sir,’ he says. ‘An’ will ye have your 
breakfust now, sir?’ 

“‘Where?’ I says. 

“‘Oh,’ he says, kind o’ grinnin’, ‘I’ll bring it up 
here, sir, d’rec’ly,’ he says, an’ went off. Putty soon 
come another knock, an’ in come the feller with a 
silver tray covered with a big napkin, an’ on it was a 
couple of rolls wrapped up in a napkin, a b’iled egg 
done up in another napkin, a cup an' saucer, a little 
chiney coffee-pot, a little pitcher of cream, some loaf- 
sugar in a silver dish, a little pancake of butter, a silver 


2 54 


DAVID HARUM 


knife, two little spoons like wliat the childern play 
with, a silver pepper-duster an’ salt-dish, an’ an orange ; 
oh, yes, the’ was another contraption—a sort of a 
chiney wine-glass. The feller set down the tray an’ 
says, ‘Anythin’ else ye’d like to have, sir?’ 

“‘No,’ I says, lookin’ it over, ‘I guess there’s enough 

or two ’ 5 an’ with that he 
face away fer a second or 
you, sir,’ he says, 
breakfast is at 
twelve, sir,’ an’ 


to last me a day 
kind o’ turned his 
two. ‘Thank 
‘The second 
half past 







V 


fl. 




out he put. Wa’al,” David continued, “the bread an’ 
butter was all right enough, exceptin’ they’d fergot 
the salt in the butter, an’ the coffee was all right ; but 
when it come to the egg, dum’d if I wa’n’t putty nigh 








DAVID HARUM 


2 55 

out of the race; but I made up my mind it must be 
hard-b’iled, an’ tackled it on that idee. Seems t’ amuse 
ye,” he said, with a grin, getting up and helping him¬ 
self. After swallowing the refreshment and the palliat¬ 
ing mouthful of water, he resumed his seat and his 
narrative. 

“Wa’al, sir,” he said, “that dum’d egg was about’s 
near raw as it was when ’twas laid, an’ the’ was a 
crack in the shell, an’ fust thing I knowed it kind o’ 
c’lapsed, an’ I give it a grab, an’ it squirtid all over my 
pants, an’ the floor, an’ on my coat an’ vest, an’ up my 
sleev^, an’ all over the tray. Scat my— ! I looked 
gen’ally like an ab’lition orator before the war. You 
never see such a mess,” he added, with an expression 
of rueful recollection. “I believe that dum’d egg held 
more’n a pint.” 

John fairly succumbed to a paroxysm of laughter. 

“Funny, wa’n’t it?” said David dryly. 

“Forgive me,” pleaded John, when he got his breath. 

“Oh, that’s all right,” said David, “but it wa’n’t the 
kind of emotion it kicked up in my breast at the time. 
I cleaned myself up with a towel well ’s I could, an’ 
thought I’d step out an’ take the air before the feller’d 
come back to git that tray an’ mebbe rub my nose 
in’t.” 

“Oh, Lord ! ” cried John. 

“Yes, sir,” said David, unheeding, “I allowed’t I’d 
walk round with my mouth open a spell, an’ git a little 
air on my stomech to last me till that second breakfust; 
an’ as I was pokin’ round the grounds I come to a sort 
of arbor, an’ there was Price, smokin’ a cigar. 

“‘Mornin’, Harum; how ye feelin’ ? ’ he says, gettin’ 
up an’ shakin’ hands$ an’ as we passed the time o’ day, 


DAVID HARUM 


256 

I noticed him noticin’ my coat. You see, as they dried 
out the egg-spots got to showin’ agin. 

“‘Ctot somethin’ on yer coat there,’ he says. 

“‘ Yes,’ I says, tryin’ to scratcli it out with my finger¬ 
nail. 

“‘Have a cigar?’ lie says, handin’ one out. 

“‘Never smoke on an empty stomech,’ I says. 

“‘ What?’ he says. 

“‘Bad fer the ap’tite,’ I says, ‘an’ I’m savin’ mine fer 
that second breakfust o’ yourn.’ 

‘“What! ’ he says, ‘haven’t ye had anythin’ to eat? ’ 
An’ then I told him what I ben tellin’ you. Wa’al, sir, 
fust he looked kind o’ mad an’ disgusted, an’ then he 
laughed till I thought he’d bust, an’ when he quit he 
says, ‘ Excuse me, Harum ; it’s too damned bad, but I 
couldn’t help laughin’ to save my soul. An’ it’s all my 
fault, too,’ he says. ‘I intended to have ye take yer 
breakfust with me, but somethin’ happened last night 
to upset me, an’ I woke with it on my mind, an’ I fer- 
got. Now you jes’ come right into the house, an’ I’ll 
have somethin’ got fer ye that’ll stay your stomech 
better ’11 air,’ he says. 

“‘No,’ I says, ‘I’ve made trouble enough fer one day, 
I guess ’; an’ I wouldn’t go, though he urged me agin 
an’, agin. ‘Ye don’t fall in with the customs of this 
region?’ I says to him. 

“‘Not in that pertic’ler, at any rate,’ he says. ‘It’s 
one o’ the fool notions that my wife an’ the girls 
brought home f’in Eurup. I have a good solid meal 
in the mornin’, same as I alwus did,’ he says.” 

Mr. Harum stopped talking to relight his cigar, and 
after a puff or two, “When I started out,” he said, “I 
hadn’t no notion of goin’ into all the highways an’ by- 


DAVID HARUM 


2 57 

ways, but when I git begun one thing’s apt to lead to 
another, an’ ye never c’n tell jest where I will fetch up. 
Now I started off to tell somethin’ in about two words, 
an’ I’m putty near as fur off as when I begun.” 

“Well,” said John, “it’s Saturday night, and the 
longer your story is the better I shall like it. I hope 
the second breakfast was more of a success than the 
first one,” he added, with a laugh. 

“I managed to average up on the two meals, I 
guess,” David remarked. “Wa’al,” he resumed, “Price 
an’ I set round talkin’ bus’nis an’ things till about 
twelve or a little after, mebbe, an’ then he turned to 
me an’ kind o’ looked me over, an’ says, ‘You an’ me 
is about of a build, an’ if you say so I’ll send one of my 
coats an’ vests up to your room, an’ have the man take 
yours an’ clean ’em.’ 

“‘I guess the’ is ruther more egg showin’ than the 
law allows,’ I says, ‘an’ mebbe that’d be a good idee ; 
but the pants caught it the wust,’ I says. 

“‘Mine’ll fit ye,’ he says. 

“‘What’ll your wife say to seein’ me airifyin’ round 
in your git-up?’ I says. He gin me a funny kind of 
look. ‘My wife?’ he says. ‘Lord, she don’t know 
more about my clo’es ’n you do.’ That struck me as 
bein’ ruther curious,” remarked David. “Wouldn’t it 
you? ” 

“Very,” replied John gravely. 

“Yes, sir,” said David. “Wa’al, when we went into 
the eatin’-room, the table was full, mostly young folks, 
chatterin’ an’ laughin’. Price int’duced me to his wife, 
an’ I set down by him at the other end of the table. 
The’ wa’n’t nothin’ wuth mentionin’; nobody paid any 
attention to me, ’cept now an’ then a word from Price, 


DAVID HARUM 


258 


an’ I wa’n’t fer talkin’, anyway—I c’d have eat a raw 
dog. After breakfust, as they called it, Price an’ I 
went out onto the verandy an’ had some coffee, an’ 
smoked an’ talked fer an hour or so, an’ then he got 
up an’ excused himself to write a letter. ‘ Ye may like 
to look at the papers awhile,’ he says. ‘I’ve ordered 
the bosses at five, an’, if ye like, I’ll show you round a 
little.’ 

“‘Won’t yer wife be wantin’ ’em!’ I says. 

“‘No, I guess she’ll git along,’ he says, kind o’ 
smilin’. 

“‘All right,’ I says, ‘don’t mind me.’ An’ so at five 
up come the bosses an’ the two fellers in uniform an’ 
all. I was lookin’ the bosses over when Price come 
out. ‘Wa’al, what do ye think of’em?’ he says. 

“‘Likely pair,’ I says, goin’ over an’ examinin’ the 
nigh one’s feet an’ legs. ‘Sore forr’ed?’ I says, lookin’ 
up at the driver. 

“‘A trifle, sir,’ he says, toucliin’ his hat. 

“‘What’s that?’ says Price, coinin’ up an’ examinin’ 
the critter's face an’ head. ‘I don’t see anythin’ the 
matter with his forehead,’ he says. I looked up an’ 
give the driver a wink,” said David, with a chuckle, 

“an’ he give kind 
of a chokin’ gasp, 
but in a second 
was lookin’ as 
solemn as ever. 
“I can’t tell ye 
jes’ where we went,” the narrator proceeded, “but 
anyway it was where all the nabobs turned out, 
an’ I seen more style an’ git-up in them two hours 
’n I ever see in my life, I reckon. The’ didn’t ap- 









DAVID HAKIM 


259 

pear to be no one we run across that, accordin’ to 
Price’s tell, was wuth under five million, though we 
may ’a’ passed one without his noticin’ ; an’ the’ was a 
good many that run to fifteen an’ twenty an’ over, an’ 
most on ’em, it appeared, was f’m New York. Wa’al, 
finely we got back to the house a little ’fore seven. On 
the way back Price says, ‘The’ are goin’ to be three 
four people to dinner to-night in a quiet way, an’ the’ 
ain’t no reason why you shouldn’t stay dressed jest as 
you are ; but if you would feel like puttin’ on evenin’ 
clo’es’ (that’s what he called ’em), ‘why, I’ve got an 
extry suit that’ll fit ye to a T, ’ he says. 

“‘No,’ I says, ‘I guess I better not. I reckon I’d 
better git my grip an’ go to the hotel. I sh’d be rather 
bashful to wear your swallertail, an’ all them folks’ll be 
strangers,’ I says. But he insisted on’t that I sh’d come 
to dinner anyway, an’ finely I gin in, an’ thinkin’ I 
might ’s well go the hull hog, I allowed I’d wear his 
clo’es. ‘ But if I do anythin’ or say anythin’’t ye don’t 
like,’ says I, ‘don’t say I didn’t warn ye.’ What would 
you ’a’ done ? ” Mr. Harnm asked. 

“Worn the clothes without the slightest hesitation,” 
replied John. “Nobody gave your costume a thought.” 

“They didn’t appear to, fer a fact,” said David, “an’ 
I didn’t either, after I’d slipped up once or twice 011 
the matter of pockets. The same feller brought ’em 
up to me that fetched the stuff in the mornin’; an’ the 
rig was complete—coat, vest, pants, shirt, white neck¬ 
tie, an’, by gum ! shoes an’ silk socks, an’, sir, scat 
my — ! the hull outfit fitted me as if it was made fer 
me. ‘Shell I wait on ye, sir?’ says the man. ‘No,’ I 
says, ‘I guess I c’n git into the things ; but mebbe you 
might come up in ’bout quarter of an hour an’ put on 


260 


DAVID HARUM 


the finisliin’ touches 5 an’ here/ I says, ‘ I guess that 
brand of eggs ye give me this mornin’ ’s wuth about 
two dollars apiece.’ 

Thank ye, sir,’ he says, grinnin’. ‘I’d like to fur¬ 
nish ’em right along at that rate, sir, an’ I’ll be up as 
you say, sir.’ ” 

“You found the way to his heart,” said John, sinil- 
ing. 

“My experience is,” said David dryly, “that most 
men’s hearts is located ruther closter to their britches 
pockets than they are to their breast pockets.” 

“I’m afraid that’s so,” said John. 

“But this feller,” Mr. Harum continued, “was a 
putty decent kind of a chap. He come up after I’d 
got into my togs, an’ pulled me here, an’ pulled me 
there, an’ fixed my necktie, an’ hitched me in gen’ral 
so’st I wa’n’t neither too tight nor too free, an’ when 
he got through, ‘ Ye’ll do now, sir,’ he says. 

“‘Think I will?’ says I. 

Couldn’t nobody look more fit, sir,’ he says ; an’ I’m 
dum’d,” said David, with an assertive nod, “when I 
looked at myself in the lookin’-glass I seurcely knowed 
myself; an’ ” (with a confidential lowering of the voice) 
“when I got back to New York the very fust hard work 
I done was to go an’ buy the hull rig-out—an’,” he 
added, with a grin, “strange as it may appear, it ain’t 
wore out yit. v 




















y 


“You look f’m behind like a red-headed snappin’ bug.” 




CHAPTER XXVII 


u People don’t dress for dinner in Homeville, as a rule, 
then,” John said, smiling. 

“No,” said Mr. Harum 5 “when they dress fer break - 
fust that does ’em fer all three meals. I’ve wore them 
things two three times when I’ve ben down to the city, 
but I never had ’em on but once up here.” 

“No?” said John. 

“No,” said David. “I put ’em on once to show to 
Polly how city folks dressed—he, he, he, he !—an’ 
when I come into the room she set forwud on her 
chair an’ stared at me over her specs. ‘What on 
airth ! ’ she says. 

“‘I bought these clo’es,’ I says, ‘to wear when bein’ 
ent’tained by the fust fam’lies. How do I look ? ’ I says. 

“‘Turn round,’ she says. ‘Ye look f’m behind,’ she 
says, ‘like a red-headed snappin’-bug, an’ in front,’ she 
says, as I turned agin, ‘like a reg’lar slinkum. I’ll bet,’ 
she says, ‘that ye hain’t thro wed away less ’n twenty 
dollars on that foolishniss.’ Polly’s a very eonserv’tive 
person,” remarked her brother, “an’ don’t never im¬ 
agine a vain thing, as the Bible says, not when she 
knows it, an’ I thought it wa’n’t wuth while to argue 
the p’int with her.” 

John laughed, and said, “Do you recall that memor¬ 
able interview between the governors of the two 
Carol inas? ” 

“Nothin’ in the historical lit’rature of our great an’ 
glorious country,” replied Mr. Harum reverently, 
“sticks closter to my mind—like a bur to a cow’s 


262 


DAVID HARUM 


tail,” lie added, by way of illustration. “Thank you, 
jest a mouthful.” 

“How about the dinner?” John asked after a little 
interlude. “Was it pleasant?” 

“Fust-rate,” declared David. “The young folks was 
out somewhere else, all but one o’ Price’s girls. The’ 
was twelve at the table, all told. I was int’duced to 
all of ’em in the parlor, an’ putty soon in come one v»f 
the fellers an’ said somethin’ to Mis’ Price that meant 
dinner was ready, an’ the girl come up to me an’ took 
holt of my arm. 1 You’re goin’ to take me out,’ she 
says, an’ we formed a procession an’ marched out to 
the dinin’-room. 1 You’re to sit by mammer,’ she says, 
showin’ me, an’ there was my name on a card, sure 
enough. Wa’al, sir, that table was a show ! I couldn’t 
begin to describe it to ye. The’ was a hull flower- 
garden in the middle, an’ a worked table-cloth ; four 
five glasses of all colors an’ sizes at ev’ry plate, an’ a 
nosegay, an’ five six diff’rent forks an’ a lot o’ knives, 
though, fer that matter,” remarked the speaker, “the’ 
wa’n’t but one knife in the lot that amounted to any¬ 
thin’, the rest on ’em wouldn’t hold nothin’; an’ the’ 
was three four sort o’ chiney slates with what they call 
—the—you ’n’ me—” 

“Menu,” suggested John. 

“I guess that’s it,” said David, “but that wa’n’t the 
way it was spelt. Wa’al, I set down an’ tucked my 
napkin into my neck, an’ though I noticed none o’ the 
rest on ’em seemed to care, I allowed that ’twa’n’t my 
shirt, an’ mebbe Price might want to wear it agin 
’fore ’twas washed.” 

John put his handkerchief over his face and coughed 
violently. 


DAVID HARUM 263 



David looked at him sharply. “Subject to them 
spells'?” he asked. 

“Sometimes,” said John, when he recovered his voice, 
and then, with as clear an expression of innocence as 
he could command, but somewhat irrelevantly, asked, 
“How did you get on with Mrs. Price*?” 

“Oh,” said David, “nicer ’n a cotton hat. She ap¬ 
peared to be a quiet sort of woman that might ’a’ 
lived anywhere, but she was 
dressed to kill—an’ so 
was the rest on ’em, 
fer that matter,” 
he remarked, 
with a laugh. 

“I tried to tell 
Polly about’em 
afterwuds, an’ 

—he, he, he ! — 
she shut me up 
mighty quick, 
an’ I thought 
myself at the time, 
thinks I, ‘ It’s a 
good thing it’s . 

warm weather,’ I says to myself. Oh, yes, 

Mis’ Price made me feel quite to home, 
but I didn’t talk much the fust part of dinner, an’ I 
s’pose she was more or less took up with havin’ so many 
folks at table ; but finely she says to me, ‘ Mr. Price was 
so annoyed about your breakfust, Mr. Harum.’ 

“‘Was he?’ I says. ‘I was afraid you’d be the one 
that’d be vexed at me.’ 

“‘Vexed with you? I don’t understand,’ she says. 


36 







DAVID HARUM 


264 

“‘’Bout the napkin I sp’iled,’ I says. ‘ Mebbe not 
actially spoiled,’ 1 says, ‘but it’ll have to go into the 
wash ’fore it c’n be used agin.’ 

“She kind o’ smiled, an’ says, ‘Really, Mr. Harum, I 
don’t know what you are talkin’ about.’ 

“‘Hain’t nobody told ye?’ I says. ‘Well, if they 
hain’t they will, an’ I may’s well make a clean breast 
on’t. I’m awful sorry,’ I says, ‘but this mornin’ when 
I come to the egg I didn’t see no way to eat it ’cept to 
peel it, an’ fust I knew it kind of exploded and daubed 
ev’rythin’ all over creation. Yes’rn,’ I says, ‘it went 
off, ’s ye might say, like old Elder Mavbee’s powder.’ 
I guess,” said David, “that I must ’a’ ben talkin’ ruther 
louder ’n I thought, fer I looked up an’ noticed that 
putty much ev’ry one on ’em was lookin’ our way an’ 
kind o’ laughin’, an’ Price in pertic’ler was grinnin’ 
straight at me. 

“‘Wliat’s that,’ he says, ‘about Elder May bee’s 
powder ? ’ 

“‘Oh, nothin’ much,’ I says; ‘jest a little supprise- 
party the elder had up to his house.’ 

“‘Tell us about it,’ says Price. 

“‘Oh, yes, do tell us about it,’ says Mis’ Price. 

“‘Wa’al,’ I says, ‘the’ ain’t much to it in the way of 
a story, but seein’ dinner must be ’most through,’ I 
says, ‘I’ll tell ye all the’ was of it. The elder had a 
small farm ’bout two miles out of the village,’ I says, 
‘an’ he was great 011 raisin’ chickins an’ turkeys. He 
was a slow, putterin’ kind of an ole foozle, but on the 
hull a putty decent citizen. Wa’al,’ I says, ‘one year 
when the poultry was coinin’ along, a family o’ skunks 
moved onto the premises, an’ done so well that putty 
soon, as the elder said, it seemed to him that it was 


DAVID HARUM 


265 


cornin’ to be a cli’ice between the chickin bus’nis an’ 
the skunk bus’nis, an’ though he said he’d heard the’ 


big 


0 




HP 

m 


% 


Ok* 



\ 


* 


was money in it if it was done on a 
enough scale, he hadn’t ben edicated to it, 
he said, and didn’t take to it a byways. So,’ 
I says, ‘he scratched round an’ got a lot o’ 


traps an’ set ’em, an’ the very next mornin’ 
he went out an’ found he’d ketclied an ole 
lie-one—president of the comp’ny. So he 
went to git his gun to shoot the critter, an’ found he 
hadn’t got no powder. The boys had used it all up on 
woodchucks, an’ the’ wa’n’t nothin’ fer it but to git 
some more down to the village, an’ as he had some more 
things to git, he hitched up ’long in the forenoon an’ 
drove down.’ 

“At this,” said David, “one of the ladies, wife to the 
judge, name o’ Pomfort, spoke up an’ says, ^ 

1 Did he leave that poor creature to suffer 
all that time? Couldn’t it have been put 
out of its misery some other way ? ’ 

“‘Wa’al, marm,’ I says, ‘I never hap¬ 
pened to know but one feller that set out 
to kill one o’ them things with a club, an’ 
he put in most o’ Ms time fer a week or two up in the 
woods hatin’ himself,’ I says. ‘He didn’t mingle in 
' gen’ral soci’ty, an’ in 

~ fact,’ I says, ‘he had 

the hull road to him¬ 
self, as ye might 
say, fer a putty 
consid’able spell.’ ” 
John threw back his head and laughed. “Did she 



| l*^; r .V 



say any more ? ” he asked. 




266 


DAVID HARUM 


“No,” said David, with a chuckle. “All the men set 
up a great laugh, an’ she colored up in a kind of huff 
at fust, an’ then she begun to laugh too, an’ then one o’ 
the waiter fellers put somethin’ down in front of me 
an’ I went eatin’ agiu. But putty soon Price he says, 
‘Come,’ he says, ‘Harum, ain’t ye goin’ on? How 
about that powder? ’ 

“‘Wa’al,’ I says, ‘ mebbe we had ought to put that 
critter out of his misery. The elder went down an’ 
bought a pound o’ powder, an’ had it done up in a 
brown-paper bundle, an’ put it with his other stuff in 
the bottom of his dem’crat wagin. But it come on to 
rain some while lie was ridin’ back, an’ the stuff got 
more or less wet, an’ so when he got home lie spread 
it out in a dish-pan an’ put it under the kitchin stove 
to dry; an’ thinkin’ that it wa’n’t dryin’ fast enough, I 
s’pose, made out to assist Nature, as the sayin’ is, by 
stirrin’ on’t up with the kitchin poker. Wa’al,’ I says, 
‘I don’t jes’ know how it happened, an’ the elder cer- 
t’inly didn’t, fer after they’d got him untangled f’m 

under what 
was left of 
the woodshed 
an’ the kitch¬ 
in stove, an’ 
tied him up 
in cotton bat- 

tin’, an’ set his leg, an’ put out the house, an’ a few 
things like that, bom-by he come round a little, an’ the 
fust thing he says was, “Wa’al, wa’al, wa’al! ” “What 
is it, pa?” says Mis’ Maybee, bendin’ down over him. 
“That peowder,” he says, in almost no voice, “that 
peowder! I was jest stirrin’ on’t a little, an’ it went 




DAVID HARUM 



0-f-f —it went o-/-/,” be says, “seemingly — in — a — 
minute /” An’ that,’ I says to Mis’ Price, ‘ was what 
that egg done.’ 



“‘We’ll have to forgive you that egg,’ she says, 
laughin’ like ev’rything, ‘for Elder Maybee’s sake’; 
an’ in fact,” said David, 

“they all laughed except 
one feller. He 
was an English¬ 
man—I fergit 
his name. When 
I got through 
he looked kind 
o’ puzzled, an’ 
says” (Mr. Ha- 
rum imitated 
his style as well 

as he could), “‘But ra’ally, Mr. 

Harum, you kneow that’s the way 
powdali always geoes off, don’t you 
kneow.’ An’ then,” said David, 

“they laughed harder ’n 
Englishman got redder ’n a beet.” 

“What did you say?” asked John. 

“Nothin’,” said David. “They was all laughin’ so’t 
I couldn’t git in a word, an’ then the waiter brought 
me another plateful of somethin’. Scat my— ! ” he 
exclaimed, “I thought that dinner’d go on till king¬ 
dom come. An’ wine ! Wa’al! I begun to feel some¬ 
thin’ like the old feller did that swallered a full 
tumbler of white whisky, thinkin’ it was water. The 
old feller was temp’rence, an’ the boys put up a job on 
him one hot day at gen’ral trainin’. Somebody ast him 




* 


ever, an’ the, 








268 


DAVID HARUM 


afterwuds how it made him feel, an’ he said he felt as 
if he was siltin’ straddle the meetin’-house, an’ ev’ry 
shingle was a Jew’s-harp. So I kep’ mum fer a while. 
But jes’ before we finely got through, an’ I hadn’t said 
nothin’ fer a spell, Mis’ Price turned to me an’ says, 
‘Did you have a pleasant drive this afternoon?’ 

“‘Yes’m,’ I says, ‘I seen the hull show, putty much. 
I guess poor folks must be ’t a premium round here. 


I reckon,’ I says, ‘that if 
the folks your husband 


they’d club together, 
p’intedout to me to¬ 
day could almost 
satisfy the re¬ 
quirements of the 
’Merican Soci’ty 
fer For’n Mis¬ 
sions.’ Mis’ Price 
laughed, an’ 
looked over at 
her husband. 
‘Yes,’ says 
Price, ‘I told 
Mr. Harum 
about some 
\ of the people 
we saw this 
afternoon, an’ I 
must say he 
didn’t appear to be as much impressed as I thought he 
would. How’s that, Harum?’ he says to me. 

“‘Wa’al,’ says I, ‘I was tliinkin’ ’t I’d like to bet 
you two dollars to a last year’s bird’s nest,’ I says, ‘that 
if all them fellers we seen this afternoon, that air over 
fifty, c’d be got together, an’ some one was suddinly to 







DAVID HARUM 269 

holler “low bridge !” that nineteen out o’ twenty’d 
duck their heads.'’ ” 

“And then?” queried John. 

“Wa’al,” said David, “all 011 ’em laughed some, but 
Price—he jes’ lay back an’ roared $ and I found out 
afterwuds,” added David, “that ev’ry man at the table, 
except the Englishman, know’d what ‘low bridge’ 
meant from actial experience. Wa’al, scat my—!” 
he exclaimed, as he looked at his watch, “it ain’t hardly 
wuth while undressin’,” and started for the door. As 
he was half-way through it, he turned and said, “Say, I 
s’pose yoidd ’a’ known what to do with that egg,” but 
he did not wait for a reply. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


It must not be understood that the Harums, Larrabees, 
Robinsons, El rights, and sundry who have thus far been 
mentioned, represented the only types in the prosper¬ 
ous and enterprising village of Homeville, and David 
perhaps somewhat magnified the one-time importance 
of the Cullom family, although he was speaking of a 
period some forty years earlier. Be that as it may, 
there were now a good many families, most of them 
descendants of early settlers, who lived in good and 
even fine houses, and were people of refinement and 
considerable wealth. These constituted a coterie of 
their own, though they were on terms of acquaintance 
and comity with the “village people,” as they desig¬ 
nated the rank and file of the Homeville population. 
To these houses came in the summer sons and daugh¬ 
ters, nieces, nephews, and grandchildren, and at the 
period of which I am writing there had been built on 
the shore of the lake, or in its vicinity, a number of 
handsome and stately residences by people who had 
been attracted by the beauty of the situation and the 
salubrity of the summer climate. And so, for some 
months in the pleasant season, the village was enlivened 
by a concourse of visitors, who brought with them urban 
customs, costumes, and equipages, and gave a good deal 
of life and color to the village streets. Then did Home¬ 
ville put its best foot forward and money in its pouch. 

“I ain’t what ye might call an old residenter,” said 
David, “though I was part raised on Buxton Hill, an’ I 
ain’t so well ’quainted with the nabobs; but Polly’s 


DAVID HARUM 


271 


lived in the village ever sence she got married, aid 
knows their fam’ly liist’ry, dam, an’ sire, an’ pedigree 
gen’ally. Of course,” he remarked, “I know all the 
men folks, an’ they know me, but I never ben into none 
o’ their houses except now an’ then on a matter of 
bus’nis 5 an’ I guess,” he said with a laugh, “that Polly hi 
allow ’t she don’t spend all her time in that circle. 
Still,' 1 he added, “they all know her, an’ ev’ry little 
while some o’ the women folks’ll come in an’ see her. 
She’s putty popular, Polly is,” he concluded. 

“I should think so, indeed,” remarked John. 

“Yes, sir,” said David, “ the’s worse folks ’n Polly 
Bixbee, if she don’t put on no style ; an’ the fact is that 
some of the folks that lives here the year round, an’ 
always have, an’ call the rest on us ‘village people,’ ’r’ 
jest as countryfied in their way ’s me an’ Polly is in 
ourn—only they don’t know it. ’Bout the only diff’- 
rence is the way they talk an’ live.” John looked at 
Mr. Harum in some doubt as to the seriousness of the 
last remark. 

“Go to the ’Piscopal church, an’ have what they call 
dinner at six o’clock,” said David. “Now, there’s the 
The’dore Yerjooses,” he continued; “the ’rig’nal Ver- 
joos come an’ settled here sometime in the thirties, 1 
reckon. He was some kind of a Dutchman, I guess ” 
(“Dutchman” was Mr. Hamm’s generic name for all 
people native to the Continent of Europe) ; “but he 
had some money, an’ bought land an’ morgiges, an’ so 
on, an’ havin’ money—money was awful source in them 
early days—made more 5 never spent anythin’ to speak 
of, an’ died pinchin’ the ’rig’nal cent he started in with.” 

“He was the father of Mr. Verjoos, the other banker 
here, 1 suppose?” said John. 

37 


2 7 2 


DAVID HARUM 


“Yes,” said David, “the’ was two boys an’ a sister. 
The oldest son, Alferd, went into the law an’ done 
bus’nis in Albany, an’ afterwuds moved to Yew York; 
but he’s always kej)t up the old place here. The old 
man left what was a good deal o’ propity fer them days, 
an’ Alf he kept his share an’ made more. He was in 
the Assembly two three terms, an’ afterwuds member 
of Congress, an’ they do say,” remarked Mr. Hamm, 
with a wink, “that he never lost no money by his poli¬ 
tics. On the other hand, The’dore made more or less 
of a muddle on’t, an’ ’mongst ’em they set him up in 
the bankin’ bus’nis. I say Ahem,’ because the Ver- 
jooses, an’ the Rogerses, an’ the Swaynes, an’ a lot of 
’em, is all more or less related to each other ; but Alf s 
reely the one at the bottom on’t, an’ after Tlie’d lost 
most of his money it was the easiest way to kind o’ keep 
him on his legs.” 

“He seems a good-natured, easy-going sort of person,” 
said John by way of comment, and, truth to say, not 
very much interested. 

“Oh, yes,” said David rather contemptuously, “ye 
could drive him with a tow-string. He don’t know 
enough to run away. But what I was gettin’ at was 
this: he an’ his wife—he married one of the Tena- 
kers—has lived right here fer the Lord knows how 
long; born an’ brought up here, both on ’em, an’ 
somehow we’re 1 village people’ an’ they ain’t, that’s 
all.” 

“Rather a fine distinction,” remarked his hearer, 
smiling. 

“Yes, sir,” said David. “Now, there’s old maid 
Allis, relative of the Rogerses, lives all alone down on 
Clark Street in an old house that hain’t had a coat o’ 


DAVID HARUM 


2 73 


paint or a new shingle sence the three Thayers was 
hung, an’ she talks about the folks next door, both sides, 
that she’s knowed alwus, as ‘ village people,’ and I don’t 
believe,” asserted the speaker, “she was ever away f’m 
Homeville two weeks in the hull course of her life. 
She’s a putty decent sort of a woman, too,” Mr. Harum 
admitted. “If the’ was a death in the house she’d go 
in an’ help, but she wouldn’t never think of askin’ one 
on ’em to tea.” 

“I suppose you have heard it said,” remarked John, 
laughing, “that it takes all sorts of people to make a 
world.” 

“I think I hev heard a rumor to that effect,” said 
David, “an’ I guess the’ ’s about as much human nature 
in some folks as the’ is in others, if not more.” 

“And I don’t fancy that it makes very much differ¬ 
ence to you,” said John, “whether the Verjooses or 
Miss Allis call you ‘village people’ or not.” 

“Don’t cut no figger at all,” declared Mr. Harum. 
“Polly ’n’ I are too old to set up fer shapes even if we 
wanted to. A good fair road-gait’s good enough fer 
me ; three square meals, a small portion of the ‘filthy 
weed,’ as it’s called in po’try, a lioss ’r two, a ten-dollar 
note where ye c’n lay yer hand on’t, an’ once in a while, 
when yer conscience pricks ye, a little somethin’ to per- 
mote the cause o’ temp’rence, an’ make the inwurd 
moniter quit jerkin’ the reins—wa’al, I guess I c’n git 
along, lieli?” 

“Yes,” said John, by way of making some rejoinder, 
“if one has all one needs it is enough.” 

“Wa’al, yes,” observed the philosopher, “that’s so, 
as ye might say, up to a certain pHnt, an’ in some ways. 
I s’pose a feller could git along, but at the same time 


2 74 


DAVID HARUM 


I’ve noticed that, gen’ally speakin’, a leetle too big \s 
about the right size.” 

“I am told,” said John, after a pause in which the 
conversation seemed to be dying out for lack of fuel, 
and apropos of nothing in particular, “that Homevilie 
is quite a summer resort.” 

“Quite a consid’able,” responded Mr. Harum. “It 
has ben to some extent fer a good many years, an’ it’s 
gettin’ more an’ more so all the time, only diff’rent. I 
mean,” he said, “that the folks that come now make 
more show, an’ most on ’em who ain’t visitin’ their re¬ 
lations either has places of their own or hires ’em fer 
the summer. One time some folks used to come an’ 
stay at the hotel. The’ was quite a fair one then,” lie 
explained; “but it burned up, an’ wa’n’t never built 
up agin because it had got not to be thought the 
fash’nable thing to put up there. Mis’ Robinson 
(Dug’s wife), an’ Mis’ Truman, round on Laylock 
Street, has some fam’lies that come an’ board with them 
ev’rv year, but that’s about all the boardin’ the’ is 
now’days.” 

Mr. Harum stopped and looked at his companion 
thoughtfully for a moment, as if something had just 
occurred to him. 

“The’ ’ll be more o’ your kind o’ folk round, come 
summer,” he said; and then, on a second thought, 
“you’re ’Piseopal, ain’t ye?” 

“I have always attended that service,” replied John, 
smiling, “and I have gone to St. James’s here nearly 
every Sunday.” 

“Hain’t they taken any notice of ye?” asked David. 

“Mr. Euston, the rector, called upon me,” said John, 
“but 1 have made no further acquaintances.” 


DAVID HA RUM 


“E-um’m!” said David, and, after a moment, in a 
sort of confidential tone, “Do you like goin’ to 
church?” he asked. 

“Well,” said John, “that depends—yes, I think I do. 
I think it is the proper thing,” he concluded weakly. 

“Depends some on how a feller’s ben brought up, 
don’t ye think so?” said David. 

“I should think it very likely,” John assented, 
struggling manfully with a yawn. 

“I guess that’s about my case,” remarked Mr. 
Harum, “an’ I sh’d have to admit that I ain’t much of 
a hand fer churcli-goin’. Polly has the princ’pal charge 
of that branch of the bus’nis, an’ the one I stay away 
from, when I don't go,” he said with a grin, “’s the 
Prespyteriun.” 

John laughed. 

“Vo, sir,” said David, “I ain’t much of a hand for’t. 
Polly used to worry at me about it till I finely says to 
her, ‘ Polly,’ I says, 4 I’ll tell ye what I’ll do. I’ll com- 
permise with ye,’ I says. ‘I won’t undertake to toiler 
right along in your track —I liain’t got the req’sit 
speed,’ I says, ‘but f’m now on I’ll go to church reg’lar 
on Thanksgivin’.’ It was putty near Thanksgivin’ 
time,” he remarked, “an’ I dnnno but she thought if 
she c’d git me started I’d finish the heat, an’ so we 
fixed it at that.” 

“Of course,” said John, with a laugh, “you kept your 
promise?” 

“Wa’al, sir,” declared David, with the utmost grav¬ 
ity, “fer the next five years I never missed attendin’ 
church on Thanksgivin’ day but four times; but after 
that,” he added, “I had to beg off. It was too much 
of a strain,” he declared with a chuckle, “an’ it took 


2 7 6 


DAVID HARUM 


more time ’n Polly c’d really afford to git me ready.” 
And so lie rambled on upon such topics as suggested 
themselves to his mind, or in reply to his auditor’s 
comments and questions, which were, indeed, more 
perfunctory than otherwise. For the Verjooses, the 
Rogerses, the Swaynes, and the rest, were people whom 
John not only did not know, but whom he neither ex¬ 
pected nor cared to know; and so his present interest 
in them was extremely small. 

Outside of his regular occupations, and despite the 
improvement in his domestic environment, life was so 
dull for him that he could not imagine its ever being 
otherwise in Homeville. It was a year since the world 
—his world—had come to an end, and though his sen¬ 
sations of loss and defeat had passed the acute stage, 
his mind was far from healthy. He had evaded David’s 
question, or only half answered it, when he merely re¬ 
plied that the rector had called upon him. The truth 
was that some tentative advances had been made to 
him, and Mr. Euston had presented him to a few of the 
people in his flock ; but beyond the point of mere po¬ 
liteness he had made no response, mainly from indiffer¬ 
ence, but to a degree because of a suspicion that his 
connection with Mr. Harum would not, to say the least, 
enhance his position in the minds of certain of the 
people of Homeville. As has been intimated, it seemed 
at the outset of his career in the village as if there had 
been a combination of circumstance and effort to put 
him on his guard, and, indeed, rather to prejudice him 
against his employer ; and Mr. Harum, as it now ap¬ 
peared to our friend, had on one or two occasions laid 
himself open to misjudgment, if no more. No allusion 
had ever been made to the episode of the counterfeit 


DAVID HARUM 


2 77 

money by either his employer or himself, and it was 
not till months afterward that the subject was brought 
up by Mr. Richard Larrabee, who sauntered into the 
bank one morning. Finding no one there but John, 
he leaned over the counter on his elbows, and twisting 
one leg about the other in a restful attitude, proceeded 
to open up a conversation upon various topics of inter¬ 
est to his mind. Dick was Mr. Hamm’s confidential 
henchman and factotum, although not regularly so em¬ 
ployed. His chief object in life was apparently to get 
as much amusement as possible out of that experience, 
and he was quite unhampered by over-nice notions of 
delicacy or bashfulness. But, withal, Mr. Larrabee 
was a very honest and loyal person, strong in his likes 
and dislikes, devoted to David, for whom he had the 
greatest admiration, and he had taken a fancy to our 
friend, stoutly maintaining that he “wa’n’t no more 
stuck-up ’n you be,’ 7 only, as he remarked to Bill Per¬ 
kins, “lie hain’t had the advantiges of your bringin’ up.” 

After some preliminary talk, “Say,” he said to John, 
“got stuck with any more countyfit money lately 1 ?” 

John’s face reddened a little and Dick laughed. 

“The old man told me about it,” he said. “Say, 
you’d ought to done as he told ye to. You’d ’a’ saved 
fifteen dollars,” Dick declared, looking at our friend 
with an expression of the utmost amusement. 

“I don’t quite understand,” said John rather stiffly. 

“Didn’t he tell ye to charge ’em up to the bank, an’ 
let him take ’em?” asked Dick. 

“Well?” said John shortly. 

“Oh, yes, I know,” said Mr. Larrabee. “He said 
sunthin’ to make you think he was goin’ to pass-’em 
out, an’ you didn’t give him no show to explain, but 


DAVID HARUM 


278 

jes’ marched into the back room an’ stuck ’em onto the 
fire. Ho, ho, ho, ho ! He told me all about it,” cried 
Dick. “Say,” he declared, “I dunno’s I ever see the 
old man more kind o’ womble-cropped over anythin’. 
Why, he wouldn’t no more ’a’ passed them bills ’n he’d 
’a’ cut his hand off. He, he, he, he ! He was jes’ 
ticklin’ your heels a little,” said Mr. Larrabee, “to see 
if you’d kick, an’,” chuckled the speaker, “you surely 
did.” 

“Perhaps I acted rather hastily,” said John, laughing 
a little from contagion. 

“Wa’al,” said Dick, “Dave’s got ways of his own. 
I’ve summered an’ wintered with him hoav for a good 
many years, an’ I ain’t got to the bottom of him yet, 
an’,” he added, “I don’t know nobody that has.” 


CHAPTER XXIX 


Although, as time went on and John had come to ;i 
better insight of the character of the eccentric person 
whom Hick had failed to fathom, his half-formed preju¬ 
dices had fallen away, it must be admitted that he oft- 
times found him a good deal of a puzzle. The domains 
of the serious and the facetious in David’s mind seemed 
to have no very well defined boundaries. 

The talk had drifted back to the people and gossip 
of Homeville, but, sooth to say, it had not on this oc¬ 
casion got far away from those topics. 

“Yes,” said Mr. Hamm, “Alf Verjoos is on the hull 
the best off of any of the lot. As I told ye, he made 
money on top of what the old man left him, an’ he 
married money. The fam’ly—some on ’em—comes 
here in the summer, an’ lie’s here part o’ the time 
gen’ally, but the women folks won’t stay here winters, 
an’ the house is left in care of Alfs sister, who never 
got married. He don’t care a hill o’ white beans fer 
anything in Homeville but the old place, and he don’t 
cal’late to have nobody on his grass, not if he knows it. 
Him an’ me are on putty friendly terms, but the fact 
is,” said David, in a semi-confidential tone, “lie’s about 
an even combine of pykery an’ viniger, an’ about as 
pop’lar in gen’ral round here as a skunk in a hen-house ; 
but Mis’ Verjoos is putty well liked j an’ one o’ the girls 
—Claricy is her name—is a good deal of a fav’rit. 
Juliet, the other one, don’t mix with the village folks 
much, an’ sometimes don’t come with the fam’ly at all. 
She favors her father,” remarked the historian. 

33 


280 


DAVID HARUM 


“Inherits liis popularity, I conclude/’ remarked 
John, smiling. 

“Slie does favor liim to some extent in that respect/’ 
was the reply; “an’ she’s dark complected like him, 
but she’s a mighty han’some girl, notwithstandin’. 
Both on ’em is han’some girls/’ observed Mr. Harum, 
“an’ great fer bosses, an’ that’s the way I got ’quainted 
with ’em. They’re all fer ridin’ hossback when they’re 
up here. Did ye ever ride a boss?” he asked. 

“Oh, yes,” said John, “I have ridden a good deal one 
time and another.” 

“Never c’d see the sense on’t,” declared David. “I 
c’11 imagine gettin’ onto a boss’s back when ’t was 
either that or walkin’, but to do it fer the fun o’ the 
thing’s more’11 I c’n understand. There ye be,” he 
continued, “stuck up four five feet up in the air like a 
clo’espin, havin’ yer backbone chucked up into yer skull, 
an’ takin’ the skin off in spots an’ places, expectin’ ev’ry 
next minute the critter’ll git out fm under ye. No, 
sir,” he protested, “if it come to be that it was either 
to ride a hossback fer the fun 0’ the thing or have 
somebody kick me, an’ kick me hard, I’d say, ‘Kick 
away.’ It conies to the same thing fur’s enjoyment 
goes, and it’s a dum sight safer.” 

John laughed outright, while David leaned forward 
with his hands on his knees, looking at him with a 
broad though somewhat doubtful smile. 

“That being your feeling,” remarked John, “I should 
think saddle horses would be rather out of your line. 
Was it a saddle horse that the Misses Verjoos were 
interested in ? ” 

“Wa’al, I didn’t buy him fer that,” replied David, 
“an’ in fact when the feller that sold him to me told 


DAVID HARUM 


281 

me he’d ben rode, I allowed that ought to knock twenty 
dollars olf 11 the price; but I did have such a boss, an’ 
outside o’ that, he was a nice piece of hoss-flesh. I 
was up to the barn one 
mornin’, mebbe four 
years ago,” he continued, 

“when in drove the Yer- 
joos carriage with one of 
the girls, the oldest one, 
inside, an’ the yeller- 
haired one on a hossback. ‘ Good-mornin’. You’re Mr. 
Harum, ain’t you?’ she says. 4 Good-mornin’,’ I says; 
‘ Harum’s the name’t I use when I appear in public. 
You’re Miss Yerjoos, I reckon,’ I says. 

“She laughed a little, an’ says, motionin’ with her 
head to’ds the carriage, ‘My sister is Miss Yerjoos. 
I’m Miss Claricy.’ I took off my cap, an’ the other girl 
jes’ bowed her head a little. 

“‘I heard you had a hoss ’t I could ride,’ says the 
one on hossback. 

“‘Wa’al,’ I says, lookin’ at her hoss, an’ he was a 
good one,” remarked David, “‘fer a saddle hoss, I 
shouldn’t think you was entirely out o’ bosses long’s 
you got that one.’ ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘this is my sister’s 
hoss. Mine has hurt his leg so badly that I am ’fraid I 
sha’n’t be able to ride him this summer.’ ‘Wa’al,’ I 
says, ‘ I’ve got a hoss that’s ben rode, so I was told, but 
I don’t know of my own knowin’.’ 

“‘Don’t you ride?’ she says. ‘Hossback?’ I says. 
‘Why, of course,’ she says. ‘Wo, ma’am,’ I says, ‘not 
when I c’n raise the money to pay my fine? She looked 
kind o’ puzzled at that,” remarked David, “but I see 
the other girl look at her an’ give a kind of quiet laugh. 



282 


DAVID HARUM 


“‘Can I see him?’ says Miss Claricy. ‘Cert’nly,’ I 
says, an’ went an’ brought him out. ‘Oh !' she says to 
her sister, 1 ain’t he a beauty? C’n I try him?’ she 
says to me. ‘Wa’al,’ I says, ‘I guess I c’n resk it if 



you can, but I didn’t buy him fer a saddle boss, an’ if 
I’m to own him fer any len’th of time I’d rather he’d 
fergit the saddle bus’nis $ an’ in any case,’ I says, ‘I 
wouldn’t like him to git a sore back, an’ then agin,’ I 
says, *1 liain’t got no saddle.’ 






DAVIl) HARUM 


283 


IU 


Wa’al,’ she says, givin’ lier head a l oss,‘ if I couldn’t 
sit straight I’d never ride agin. I never made a boss’s 
back sore in my life,’ she says. ‘We c’n change the 
saddle,’ she says, an’ off she jumps, an’, scat my— !” 
exclaimed David, “the way she knowed about gettin’ 
that saddle fixed, pads, straps, girt’s, an’ the hull 
bus’nis, an’ put up her foot fer me to give her a lift, 
an’ wheeled that hoss an’ went out o’ the yard a-kitin’, 
was as slick a piece o’ hoss bus’nis as ever I see. It took 
fust money, that did,” said Mr. Harum, with a confirm¬ 
atory shake of the head. “Wa’al,” lie resumed, “in 
about a few minutes back she come, lickity-cut, an’ 
pulled up in front of me. ‘C’n you send my sister’s 
hoss home? ’ she says, ‘an’ then I sha’n’t have to change 
agin. I’ll stay on my hoss,’ she says, laughin’, an’ then 
agin laughin’ fit to kill, fer I stood there with my 
mouth open clear to my back teeth, not bein’ used to 
doin’ bus’nis ’ith quite so much neatniss an’ dispatch, 
as the say in’ is. 

“‘Oh, it’s all right,’ she says. ‘Poppa came home 
las’ night, an’ I’ll have him see you this afternoon or 
to-morroV ‘But mebbe he ’if I won’t agree about 
the price,’ I says. ‘Yes, you will,’ she says, ‘an’ if you 
don’t I won’t make his back sore’—an’ off they went, 
an’ left me standi if there like a stick in the mud. 
I’ve bought an’ sold bosses to some extent fer a con- 
sid’able number o’ years,” said Mr. Harum reflectively, 
“but that partic’ler transaction’s got a peg all to itself.” 

John laughed, and asked, “How did it come out? I 
mean, what sort of an interview did you have with the 
young woman’s father, the popular Mr. Verjoos?” 

“Oh,” said David, “he druv up to the office the next 
morniif, ’bout ten o’clock, an’ come into the back room 


DAVID HARUM 


284 

here, an’ after we’d passed the time o’ day, he says, 
clearin’ his throat in a way he’s got, ‘He-uli, he-nh ! ’ 
he says, ‘my daughter tells me that she run off with a 
hoss of yours yestid’y in rather a summ’ry manner, an 
—he-uh-uh—I have come to see you about payin’ fer 
him. What is the price ? ’ he says. 

“‘Wa’al,’ I says, more’n anythin’ to see what he’d 
say, ‘what would you say he was wuth?’ An’ with 
that he kind o’ stiffened a little stiffer ’n he was before, 
if it could be. 

“‘Really,’ he says, ‘he-uh-uh, I haven’t any idea. I 
haven’t seen the animal, an’ I should not consider my¬ 
self qual’fied to give an opinion upon his value if I 
had, but,’ he says, ‘I don’t know that that makes any 
material difference, however, because I am quite— 
he-uh, he-uh—in your bauds—he-uh !—within limits— 
he-uh-uh !—within limits,’ he says. That kind o’ riled 
me,” remarked David. “I see in a minute what was 
passin’ in his mind. ‘Wa’al,’ I says, ‘Mr. Verjoos, I 
guess the fact o’ the matter is’t I’m about as much in 
the mud as you be in the mire—your daughter’s got 
my hoss,’ I says. ‘Now you ain’t dealin’ with a hoss 
jockey,’ I says, ‘though I don’t deny that I buy an’ sell 
bosses, an’ once in a while make money at it. You’re 
dealin’ with David Harum, Banker, an’ I consider ’t 
I’m dealin’ with a lady, or the father of one on her 
account,’ I says. 

‘“He-uli, he-uh ! I meant no offense, sir,’ he says. 

“‘None bein’ meant, none will be took,’ I says. 
‘Now,’ I says, ‘I was offered one-seventy-five fer that 
hoss day before yestid’y, an’ wouldn’t take it. I can’t 
sell him fer that,’ I says. 

“‘He-uh, uh ! cert’nly not,’ he says. 


DAVID HARUM 


285 


“‘Wait a minit,’ I says. ‘I can’t sell him fer that 
because I said I wouldn’t; but if you feel like drawin’ 
your check fer one-seventy-si^’ I says, ‘ we’ll call it a 
deal.’ ” The speaker paused with a chuckle. 

“Well!” said John. 

“Wa’al,” said David, “he, he, he, he ! That clean 
took the wind out of him, an’ he got redder ’n a beet. 
‘He-uh-uh-uh-huli! really,’ he says, ‘I 
couldn’t think of offerin’ you less 
than two hunderd.’ 

“‘All right,’ I says, ‘I’ll send up 
fer the hoss. One-seventy-six 
is my price, no more an’ no less,’ 
an’ I got up out o’ my chair.” 

“And what did he say then?” 
asked John. 

“Wa’al,” replied Mr. Harum, 

“he settled his neck down t < 

f ~ • A 

into his collar an’ necktie 11 

an’ cleared his throat a few ^ 
times, an’ says, ‘You put me 
in ruther an embarrassin’ ^ 

s,' 

position, Mr. Harum. My 
daughter has set her heart 
on the hoss, an’—he-uh- 
uh-uh ! ’—with a kind of ^ 
a smile like a wrinkle in a boot, 

‘I can’t very well tell her that I 
wouldn’t buy him because you 
wouldn’t accept a higher offer than your own price. 
I—I think I must accede to your proposition, an’—he- 
uh-uh—accept the favor,’ he says, draggin’ the words 
out by the roots. 








286 


DAVID HARUM 


“‘No favor-at all/ I says, ‘not a bit on’t, not a bit 
on’t. It was the cleanest an’ slickist deal I ever had/ I 
says, ‘an’ I’ve had a good many. That girl o’ yourn/ 
I says, ‘if yon don’t mind my sayin’ it, comes as near 
bein’ a full team an’ a cross dog under the wagin as 
you c’n git j an’ you c’n tell her, if you think fit/ I 
says, ‘that if she ever wants anythin’ more out o’ my 
barn I’ll throw off twenty-four dollars ev’ry time, if 
she’ll only do her own buyin’.’ 

“Wa’al,” said Mr. Harum, “I didn’t know but wliat 
he’d gag a little at that, but he didn’t seem to, an’ 
when he went off after givin’ me his check, he put out 
his hand an’ shook hands, a thing he never done be¬ 
fore.” 

“That was really very amusing,” was John’s comment. 

“’Twa’n’t a bad day’s work either,” observed Mr. 
Harum. “I’ve sold the crowd a good many bosses 
since then, an’ I’ve laughed a thousan’ times over that 
pertic’ler trade. Me ’n’ Miss Claricy,” he added, “has 
alwus ben good friends sence that time—an’ she ’n’ 
Polly are reg’lar neetups. She never sees me in the 
street but what it’s ‘How dee do, Mr. H-a-rum?’ An’ 
I’ll say, ‘Ain’t that ole boss wore out yet?’ or, ‘When 
you coinin’ round to run off with another boss?’ I’ll 
say.” 

At this point David got out of his chair, yawned, and 
walked over to the window. 

“Did you ever in all your born days,” he said, “see 

C/ %J / 

such dum’d weather? Jest look out there—no sleighin’ 
no wheelin’, an’ a barn full wantin’ exercise. Wa’al, 1 
guess I’ll be moseyin’ along.” And out he went. 


CHAPTER XXX 


If John Lenox had kept a diary for the first year of his 
lifeinHomeville mostof its pageswould liavebeenblank. 

The daily routine of the office (he had no assistant 
but the callow Hopkins) was more exacting than la¬ 
borious, but it kept him confined seven hours in the 
twenty-four. Still, there was time in the lengthened 
days as the year advanced for walking, rowing, and 
riding or driving about the picturesque country which 
surrounds Homeville. He and Mr. Hamm often drove 
together after the bank closed, or after “tea,” and it 
was a pleasure in itself to observe David’s dexterous 
handling of his horses, and his content and satisfaction 
in the enjoyment of his favorite pastime. In pursuit 
of business he “jogged round,” as he said, behind the 
faithful Jinny, but when on pleasure bent, a pair of 
satin-coated trotters drew him in the latest and “slick¬ 
est ” model of top-buggies. 

“Of course,” he said, “I’d rather ride all alone than 
not to ride at all, but the’s twice as much fun in’t when 
you’ve got somebody along. I ain’t much of a talker, 
unless I happen to git started” (at which assertion 
John repressed a smile), “but once in a while I like to 
have somebody to say somethin’ to. You like to come 
along, don’t ye? ” 

“Very much indeed.” 

“I used to git Polly to come once in a while,” said 
David, “but it wa’n’t no pleasure to her. She hadn’t 
never ben used to bosses, an’ alwus set on the edge of 
the seat ready to jump, an’ if one o’ the critters capered a 

39 


288 


DAVID HARUM 


little she’d want to git right out then an’ there. I reckon 
she never went out but what she thanked mercy when 
she struck the hoss-block to git back with hull bones.” 

“I shouldn’t have thought that she would have been 
nervous with the reins in your hands/’ said John. 

“Wa’al,” replied David, “the last time she come 
along somethin’ give the team a little scare an’ she 

reached over 
an’ made a 
grab at the 
lines. That,” 
he remarked 
with a grin, 
“was quite a 

f . ? ^ 

good while ago. I says to her when we got home, ‘I 
guess after this you’d better take your airin’s on a stun- • 
boat. You won’t be so liable to git run away with an’ 
throwed out,’ I says.” 

John laughed a little, but made no comment. 

“After all,” said David, “I dunno’s I blamed her fer 
bein’ skittish, but I couldn’t have her grabbin’ the lines. 
It’s curi’s,” he reflected, “I didn’t used to mind what I 
rode behind, nor who done the drivin’, but I’d have to 
admit that as I git older I prefer to do it myself. I 
ride ev’ry once in a while with fellers that c’n drive as 
well, an’ mebbe better, ’n I can, an’ I know it, but if 
anythin’ turns up, or looks like it, I can’t help wisliin’ ’t 
I had holt o’ the lines myself.” 

The two passed a good many hours together thus 
beguiling the time. Whatever David’s other merits 
as a companion, he was not exacting of response 
when engaged in conversation, and rarely made any 
demands upon his auditor. 



./ f 

'K- . 






V 






















DAVID HARUM 


289 

During that first year John made few additions to 
his social acquaintance, and if in the summer the sight 
of a gay party of young people caused some stirrings 
in his breast, they were not strong enough to induce 
film to make any attempts toward the acquaintance 
which lie might have formed. He was often conscious 
of glances of curiosity directed toward himself, and Mr. 
Euston was asked a good many questions about the 
latest addition to his congregation. 

Y es, he had called upon Mr. Lenox and his call had 
been returned. In fact, they had had several visits 
together—had met out walking once and had gone on 
in company. Was Mr, Lenox “nice”? Y"es, he had 
made a pleasant impression upon Mr. Euston, and 
seemed to be a person of intelligence and good breed¬ 
ing-very gentlemanlike. Why did not people know 
him? Well, Mr. Euston had made some proffers to 
that end, but Mr. Lenox had merely expressed his 
thanks. Vo, Mr. Euston did not know how he hap¬ 
pened to be in Homeville and employed by that queer 
old Mr. Harum, and living with him and his funny old 
sister; Mr. Lenox had not confided in him at all, and 
though very civil and pleasant, did not appear to wish 
to be communicative. 

So our friend did not make his entrance that season 
into the drawing- or dining-rooms of any of what David 
called the “nabobs’ ” houses. By the middle or latter 
part of October Homeville was deserted of its visitors 
and as many of that class of its regular population as 
had the means to go with and a place to go to. 

It was under somewhat different auspices that John 
entered upon the second winter of his sojourn. It has 
been made plain that his relations with his employer 


290 


DAVID HARUM 


and the kind and lovable Polly were on a satisfactory 
and permanent footing’. 

“I’m dum’d,” said David to Dick Larrabee, “if it 
hain’t got putty near to tlie p int when if I want to git 
anythin’ out o’ the common run out o' Polly, I'll have 
to ask John to fix it fer me. She’s like a cow with a 
calf,” he declared. 

“David sets all the store in the world by him,” stated 
Mrs. Bixbee to a friend, “though he don’t jes’ let on to 
—not in so many words. He’s got a kind of a notion 
that his little boy, if he’d lived, would ’a’ ben like him 
some ways. I never seen the child,” she added, with 
an expression which made her visitor smile, “but as 
near’s I c’11 make out f’111 Dave’s tell, he must ’a’ beu 
red headed. Didn’t you know’t he’d ever ben mar- 
l ied! Wa’al, he was fer a few years, though it’s tlie 
one thing—wa’al, I don’t mean exac’ly that—it’s one o’ 
the things he don’t have much to say about. But once 
in a while he’ll talk about the boy, what he’d be now 
if he’d lived, an’ so on ; an’ lie’s the greatest hand fer 
childern—everlastin’ly pickin’ on ’em up when lie’s 
ridin’ an’ such as that; an’ I seen him once, when we 
was travelin’ on the ears, go an’ take a squawlin’ baby 
away f’111 its mother, who looked ready to drop, an’ 
lay it across that big chest of his, an’ the little thing 
never gave a whimper after he got it into his arms— 
.jest, went right off to sleep. No,” said Mrs. Bixbee, “I 
never had no childern, an’ I don’t know but what I 
was glad of it at the time; Jim Bixbee was about as 
much baby as T thought I could manage, but now—” 

There was some reason for not concluding the sen¬ 
tence, and so we do not know what was in her mind. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


The year that had passed had seemed a very long one 
to John, but as the months came and went he had in a 
measure adjusted himself to the change in his fortunes 
and environment; and so as time went on the poignancy 
of his sorrow and regret diminished, as it does with all 
of us. Yet the sight of a gray-haired man still brought 
a pang to his heart, and there were times of yearning 
longing to recall every line of the face, every detail of 
the dress, the voice, the words, of the girl who had 
been so dear to him, and who had gone out of his life 
as irrevocably, it seemed to him, as if by death itself. 
It may be strange, but it is true that for a very long¬ 
time it never occurred to him that he might communi¬ 
cate with her by mailing a letter to her Xew York ad¬ 
dress to be forwarded, and when the thought came to 
him the impulse to act upon it was very strong, but he 
did not do so. Perhaps he would have written had he 
been less in love with her, but also there was mingled 
with that sentiment something of bitterness which, 
though he could not quite explain or justify it, did 
exist. Then, too, he said to himself, “Of what avail 
would it be? Only to keep alive a longing for the im¬ 
possible.” No, he would forget it all. Men had died 
and worms had eaten them, but not for love. Many 
men lived all their lives without it and got on very 
well too, he was aware. Perhaps some day, when he 
had become thoroughly affiliated and localized, he 
would wed a village maiden, and rear a Freeland 
County brood. Our friend, as may be seen, had a 


DAVID HARUM 


292 

pretty healthy mind, and we need not sympathize 
with him to the disturbance of our own peace. 

Books accumulated in the best bedroom. John s ex¬ 
penses were small, and there was very little temptation, 
or indeed opportunity, for spending. At the time of 





• — 

his taking possession of his quarters in David’s house 
he had raised the question of his contribution to the 
household expenses, but Mr. Harum had declined to 
discuss the matter at all and referred him to Mrs. Bix- 
bee, with whom he compromised on a weekly sum 
which appeared to him absurdly small, but which she 




DAVID HARUM 


2 93 


protested she was ashamed to accept. After a while a 
small upright piano made its appearance, with Aunt 
Polly’s approval. 

“Why, of course,” she said. “You needn’t to hev 
ast me. I’d like to hey you anyway. I like music 
ever so much, an’ so does David, though I guess it 
would floor him to try an’ raise a tune. I used to sing 
quite a little when I was younger, an’ I gen’ally help at 
church an’ prayer meetin’ now. Why, cert’nly. Why 
not? When would you play if it wa’n’t in the evenin’ ? 
David sleeps over the wing. Do you hear him snore? ” 

“Hardly ever,” replied John, smiling. “That is to 
say, not very much—just enough sometimes to know 
that he is asleep.” 

“Wa’al,” she said decidedly, “if he’s fur enough off 
so’t you can’t hear him , I guess he won’t hear you much, 
an’ he sure won’t hear you after he gits to sleep.” 

So the piano came, and was a great comfort and re¬ 
source. Indeed, before long it became the regular 
order of things for David and his sister to spend an 
hour or so on Sunday evenings listening to his music 
and their own as well—that is, the music of their 
choice—which latter was mostly to be found in “Car- 
mina Sacra” and “Moody and Sankey”; and Aunt 
Polly’s heart was glad indeed when she and John to¬ 
gether made concord of sweet sounds in some familiar 
hymn tune, to the great edification of Mr. Harum, 
whose admiration was unbounded. 

“Did I tell you,” said David to Dick Larrabee, “what 
happened the last time me an’ John went ridin’ to¬ 
gether? ” 

“Hot’s I remember on,” replied Dick. 


294 


DAVID HARUM 


“Wa’al, we’ve rode together quite a consid’able,” said 
Mr. Harum, “but I hadn’t never said anythin’ to him 
about takin’ a turn at the lines. This day we’d got a 
piece out into the country an’ I had the brown colts. 
I says to him, ‘ Ever do any drivin’ ? ’ 

“‘More or less,’ he says. 

“‘Like to take the lines fer a spell 1 ?’ I says. 

“‘Yes,’ he says, lookin’ kind o’ pleased, ‘if you ain’t 
afraid to trust me with ’em,’ he says. 

“‘Wa’al, I’ll be here,’ I says, an’ handed ’em over. 
Wa’al, sir, I see jes’ by the way he took holt on ’em it 
wa’n’t the fust time, an’ we went along to where the 
road turns in through a piece of woods, an’ the track 
is narrer, an’ we run slap onto one o’ them dum’d road- 
engines that had got wee-wawed putty near square 
across the track. Now I tell ye,” said Mr. Harum, 
“them bosses didn’t like it fer a cent, an’, tell the truth, 
I didn’t like it no better. We couldn’t go ahead, fer 
we couldn’t git by the cussed thing, an’ the 
bosses was ’par’ntly tryin’ to git back under 

the buggy, 
an’, scat 
my— ! if 
he didn’t 
straighten 
’em out 
an’ back 
’em round 

in that narrer road, an’ hardly scraped a wheel. Yes, 

sir,” declared Mr. Harum, “I couldn’t’a’ done it slicker 

myself, an’ I don’t know nobody that could.” 

“Guess you must ’a’ felt a little ticklish yourself,” 

* / 

said Dick sympathetically, laughing as usual. 





DAVID HARUM 


2 Cjj 

“Wa’al, you better believe,” declared the other. 
“The’ was ’bout half a minute when I’d have sold out 
mighty cheap, an’ took a promise fer the money. He’s 
welcome to drive any team in my barn,” said David, 
feeling—in which view Mr. Larrabee shared—that 
encomium was pretty well exhausted in that assertion. 

“I don’t believe,” said Mr. Harum after a moment, 
in which he and his companion reflected upon the 
gravity of his last declaration, “that the’s any dum 
thing that feller can’t do. The last thing’s a piany. 
He’s got a little one that stands up on its hind legs in 
his room, an’ he c’n play it with both hands ’thout 
lookin’ on. Yes, sir, we have reg’lar concerts at my 
house ev’ry Sunday night, admission free, an’ childern 
half price, an’,” said David, “you’d ought to hear him 
an’ Polly sing ; an’—he, he, he ! you’d ought to see her 
singin’—tickleder ’n a little dog with a nosegay tied to 
his tail.” 



CHAPTER XXXII 


Our friend’s acquaintance with the rector of St. James’s 
Church had grown into something like friendship, and 
the two men were quite often together in the evening. 
John went sometimes to Mr. Euston’s house, and not 
unfrequently the latter would spend an hour in John’s 
room over a cigar and a chat. On one of the latter 
occasions, late in the autumn, Mr. Euston went to the 
piano after sitting a few minutes, and looked over, some 
of the music, among which were two or three hymnals. 

“You are musical,” he said. 

“In a modest way,” was the reply. 

“I am very fond of it,” said the clergyman, “but 
have little knowledge of it. I wish I had more,” he 
added in a tone of so much regret as to cause his hearer 
to look curiously at him. “Yes,” he said, “I wish I 
knew more—or less. It’s the bane of my existence,” 
declared the rector witli a half-laugh. 

John looked inquiringly at him, but did not respond. 

“I mean the music—so called—at St. James’s,” said 
Mr. Euston. “ I don’t wonder you smile,” he remarked ; 
“but it’s not a matter for smiling with me.” 












































DAVID HA RUM 


2 97 

“I beg pardon,” said John. 

“Vo, you need not,” returned the other, “but really 
— well, there are a good many unpleasant and dis¬ 
heartening experiences in a clergyman’s life, and I can, 
I hope, face and endure most of them with patience, 
but the musical part of my service is a never-ending 
source of anxiety, perplexity, and annoyance. I 
think,” said Mr. Euston, “that I expend more nerve tis¬ 
sue upon that branch of my responsibilities than upon 
all the rest of my work. You see, we cannot afford to 
pay any of the singers, and indeed my people—some 
of them, at least—think fifty dollars is a great sum for 
poor little Miss Knapp, the organist. The rest are 
volunteers, or rather, I should say, have been pressed 
into the service. We are supposed to have two so¬ 
pranos and two altos; but in effect it happens some¬ 
times that neither of a pair will appear, each expecting 
the other to be on duty. The tenor, Mr. Rubber, who 
is an elderly man without any voice to speak of, but a 
very devout and faithful churchman, is to be depended 
upon to the extent of his abilities; but Mr. Little, the 
bass—well,” observed Mr. Euston, “the less said about 
him the better.” 

“How about the organist? ” said John. “I think she 
does very well—doesn’t she? ” 

“Miss Knapp is the one redeeming feature,” replied 
the rector, “but she has not much courage to interfere. 
Hubber is nominally the leader, but he knows little of 
music.” Mr. Euston gave a sorry little laugh. “It’s 
trying enough,” he said, “one Sunday with another, 
but on Christmas and Easter, when my people make an 
unusual effort and attempt the impossible, it is some¬ 
thing deplorable.” 


DAVID HARUM 


298 

John could not forbear a little laugh. “I should 
think it must be pretty trying,’ 7 he said. 

“It is simply corroding,” declared Mr. Euston. 

They sat for a while smoking in silence, the contem¬ 
plation of his woes having apparently driven other 
topics from the mind of the harassed clergyman. At 
last he said, turning to our friend : 

“I have heard your voice in church.” 

“Yes?” 

“And I noticed that you sang not only the hymns 
but the chants, and in a way to suggest the idea that 
you have had experience and training. I did not come 
here for the purpose,” said Mr. Euston, after waiting a 
moment for John to speak, “though I confess the idea 
has occurred to me before, but it was suggested again 
by the sight of your piano and music. I know that it 
is asking a great deal,” lie continued, “but do you 
think you could undertake, for a while at least, to help 
such a lame dog as 1 am over the stile? You have no 
idea,” said the rector earnestly, “ what a service you 
would be doing not only to me, but to my people and 
the church.” 

John pulled thoughtfully at his mustache for a mo¬ 
ment, while Mr. Euston watched his face. “I don’t 
know,” he said at last in a doubtful tone. “1 am afraid 
you are taking too much for granted—I don’t mean as 
to my good will, but as to my ability to be of service, 
for I suppose you mean that I should help in drilling 
your choir.” 

“Yes,” replied Mr. Euston. “I suppose it would be 
too much to ask you to sing as well.” 

“I have had no experience in the way of leading or 
directing,” replied John, ignoring the suggestion, 


DAVID HA KIM 


2 99 

“though I have sung in church more or less, and am 
familiar with the service ; but even admitting my abil¬ 
ity to be of use, shouldn’t you be afraid that my inter¬ 
posing might make more trouble than it would help? 
Wouldn’t your choir resent it? Such people are some¬ 
times jealous, you know.” 

“Oh, dear, yes,” sighed the rector. “But,” he added, 
“I think I can guarantee that there will be no un¬ 
pleasant feeling either toward you or about you. 
Your being from New York will give you a certain 
prestige, and their curiosity and the element of novelty 
will make the beginning easy.” 

There came a knock at the door, and Mr. Harum ap¬ 
peared, but, seeing a visitor, was for withdrawing. 

“Don’t go,” said John. “Come in. Of course you 
know Mr. Euston.” 

“Glad to see ye,” said David, advancing and shaking 
hands. “You folks talkin’ bus’nis?” he asked before 
sitting down. 

“I am trying to persuade Mr. Lenox to do me a 
great favor,” said Mr. Euston. 

“Well, I guess he won’t want such an awful sight o’ 
persuadin’,” said David, taking a chair, “if he’s able to 
do it. What does he want of ye?” he asked, turning 
to John. 

Mr. Euston explained, and our friend gave his reasons 
for hesitating—all but the chief one, which was that 
lie was reluctant to commit himself to an undertaking 
which he apprehended would be not only laborious but 
disagreeable. 

“Wa’al,” said David, “as fur’s the bus’nis itself’s 
concerned, the hull thing’s all nix-cum-rouse to me ; 
but as fur’s gettin’ folks to come an’ sing, you c’n git a 


3 °° 


DAVID HARUM 


barn full, an’ take your pick ; an’ a feller that c’n git a 
pair of bosses an’ a buggy out of a tight fix the way 
you done awhile ago ought to be able to break in a 
little team of half a dozen women or so.” 

“Well,” said John, laughing, “you could have done 
what I was lucky enough to do with the horses, but—” 

“Yes, yes,” David broke in, scratching his cheek, “I 
guess ye got me that time.” 

Mr. Euston perceived that for some reason he had an 
ally and advocate in Mr. Hamm. He rose and said 
good night, and John escorted him downstairs to the 
door. “Pray think of it as favorably as you can,” he 
said, as they shook hands at parting. 

“Putty nice kind of a man,” remarked David when 
John came back ; “putty nice kind of a man. ’Bout 
the only ’quaintance you’ve made of his kind, ain’t 
he? Wa’al, he’s all right fur ’s he goes. Comes of 
good stock, I’m told, an’ looks it. Runs a good deal 
to emptins in his preachin’, though, they say. How do 
ye find him?” 

“I think I enjoy his conversation more than his ser¬ 
mons,” admitted John, with a smile. 

“Less of it at times, ain’t the’?” suggested David. 
“I may have told ye,” he continued, “that I wa’n’t a 
very reg’lar churchgoer, but I’ve ben more or less in 
my time, an’ when 1 did listen to the sermon all 
through, it gen’ally seemed to me that if the preacher’d 
put all the’ really was in it together he wouldn’t need 
to have took only ’bout quarter the time ; but wliat 
with scorin’ fer a start, an’ laggin’ on the back stretch, 
an’ ev’ry now an’ then break in’ to a stan’still, I <ren’- 
ally wanted to come down out o’ the stand before the 
race was over. The’s a good many fast quarter bosses,” 


DAVID HARUM 


3 01 

remarked Mr. Harum, “but them that c’n keep it up 
fer a full mile is source. What you goin’ to do about 
the music bus’nis, or hain’t ye made up your mind 
yet?’’ he asked, changing the subject. 

“I like Mr. Euston,” said John, “and he seems very 
much in earnest about this matter ; but I am not sure,” 
he added thoughtfully, “that I can do what he wants, 
and I must say that I am very reluctant to undertake 
it; still, I don’t know but that I ought to make the 
trial,” and he looked up at David. 

“I guess I would if I was you,” said the latter. “It 
can’t do ye no harm, an’ it may do ye some good. The 
fact is,” he continued, “that you ain’t out o’ danger of 
runnin’ in a rut. It would do ye good mebbe to git 
more acquainted, an’ mebbe this’ll be the start on’t.” 

“With a little team of half a dozen women, as you 
called them,” said John. “Mr. Euston has offered to 
introduce me to any one I cared to know.” 

“I didn’t mean the singin’ folks,” responded Mr. 
Harum; “I meant the church folks in gen’ral, an’ 
it’ll come round in a natur’l sort of way—not like bein’ 
took round by Mr. Euston as if you’d ast him to. You 
can’t git along—you may, an’ have fer a spell, but not 
alwus—with nobody to visit with but me an’ Polly an’ 
Dick, an’ so on, an’ once in a while with the parson; 
you ben used to somethin’ diff’rent, an’ while I ain’t 
say in’ that Homeville soci’ty, pertic’lerly in the win¬ 
ter, ’s the finest in the land, or that me an’ Polly ain’t 
all right in our way, you want a change o’ feed once in 
a while, or ye may git the colic. Now,” proceeded the 
speaker, “if this singin’ bus’nis don’t do more’n to give 
ye somethin’ new to think about, an’ take up an evenin’ 
now an’ then, even if it bothers ye some, I think mebbe 


3 02 


DAVID HARUM 


it’ll be a good thing fer ye. They say a reasonable 
amount o’ fleas is good fer a dog—keeps him from 
broodin’ over bein ' 1 a dog, mebbe,” suggested David. 

“Perhaps you are right,” said John. “ Indeed, I 
don’t doubt that you are right, and I will take your 
advice.” 

u Thank you,” said David a minute or two later on, 
holding out the glass while John poured, “jest a wis¬ 
dom-toothful. I don’t set up , 
to be no Sol’mon, an’ if ye ever . 
find out how I’m bettin’ on a \ 1 
race, jest ‘ copper’ me an’ you 
c’n wear di’monds, but I know 
when a hoss has stood too ? 



long in the barn as soon as the 
next man.” 

It is possible that even Mr. 
Euston did not fully appreci¬ 
ate the difficulties of the task which he persuaded 
our friend John to undertake ; and it is certain that 
had the latter known all that they were to be, he would 
have hardened his heart against both the pleadings of 
the rector and the advice of David. His efforts were 








DAVID HARUM 


3°3 

welcomed and seconded by Mr. Hnbber the tenor, and 
Miss Knapp the organist, and there was some earnest¬ 
ness displayed at first by the ladies of the choir; but 
Mr. Little, the bass, proved a hopeless case, and John, 
wholly against his intentions, and his inclinations as 
well, had eventually to take over the basso’s duty alto¬ 
gether, as being the easiest way—in fact, the only way 
—to save his efforts from downright failure. 

Without going in detail into the trials and tribula¬ 
tions incident to the bringing of the musical part of 
the service at Mr. Euston’s church up to a respectable 
if not a high standard, it may be said that with unre¬ 
mitting pains this end was accomplished, to the bound¬ 
less relief and gratitude of that worthy gentleman, and 
to a good degree of the members of his congregation. 


41 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


On a fine Sunday in summer after the close of the ser- 
vice the exit of the congregation of St. James’s Church 
presents an animated and inspiring spectacle. A good 
many well-dressed ladies of various ages, and not quite 
so many well-dressed men, mostly (as David would 
have put it) “runnin’ a little younger,” come from out 
the sacred edifice witli an expression of relief easily 
changeable to something gayer. A few drive away in 
handsome equipages, but most prefer to walk, and there 
is usually a good deal of smiling talk in groups before 
parting, in which Mr. Elision likes to join. He leaves 
matters in the vestry to the care of old Barlow, the 
sexton, and makes, if one may be permitted the ex¬ 
pression, “a quick change.” 

Things had come about very much as David had de¬ 
sired and anticipated, and our friend had met quite a 
number of the “summer people,” having been waylaid 
at times by the rector—in whose good graces he stood 
so high that he might have sung anything short of a 
comic song during the offertory—and presented willy- 
nilly. On this particular Sunday he had lingered 
awhile in the gallery after service over some matter 
connected with the music, and when he came out of the 
church most of the people had made their way down 
the trout steps and up the street ; but standing near 
the gate was a group of three—the rector and two 
young women whom John had seen the previous sum¬ 
mer, and now recognized as the Misses Verjoos. He 
raised his hat as he was passing the group, when Mr. 


DAVID HA HUM 


3 ° 9 


Elision detained him : “I want to present you to the 
Misses Verjoos.” A tall girl, dressed in some black 
material which gave John the impression of lace, recog¬ 
nized his salutation with a slight bow and a rather in¬ 
different survey from a pair of very somber dark eyes, 
while her sister, in light colors, gave him a smiling 
glance from a pair of very blue ones, and, rather to his 
surprise, put out her hand with the usual declaration 
of pleasure, happiness, or what not. 

“We were just speaking of the singing,” said the 
rector, “and I was saying that it was all your doing.” 

“You really have done wonders,” condescended she 
of the somber eyes. “We have only been here a day 
or two, and this is the first time we have been at 
church.” 

The party moved out of the gate and up the street, 
the rector leading with Miss Verjoos, followed by our 
friend and the younger sister. 

“Indeed you have,” said the latter, seconding her sis¬ 
ter’s remark. “I don’t believe even yourself can quite 
realize what the difference is. My ! it is very nice for 
the rest of us, but it must be a perfect killing bore for 
you.” 

“I have found it rather trying at times,” said John ; 
“but now—you are so kind—it is beginning to appear 
to me as the most delightful of pursuits.” 

“Very pretty,” remarked Miss Clara. “Do you say 
a good deal of that sort of thing?” 

o w 

“I am rather out of practice,” replied John. “I 
haven’t had much opportunity for some time.” 

“I don’t think you need feel discouraged,” she re¬ 
turned. “A good method is everything, and I have no 
doubt you might soon be in form again.” 


DAVID HARUM 


3°6 

“Thanks for your encouragement / 7 said John, smil¬ 
ing. “I was beginning to feel quite low in my mind 
about it.” 

She laughed a little. 

“I heard quite a good deal about you last year from 
a very good friend of yours,” said Miss Clara after a 
pause. 

John looked at her inquiringly. 

“Mrs. Bixbee,” she said. “Isn’t she an old dear?” 

“I have reason to think so with all my heart,” said 
John stoutly. 

“She talked a lot about you to me,” said Miss Clara. 

“Yes ? 77 

“Yes, and if your ears did not burn you have no 
sense of gratitude. Isn’t Mr. Harum funny?” 

“I have sometimes suspected it,” said John, laugh¬ 
ing. “He once told me rather an amusing thing about 
a young woman’s running off witli one of his horses.” 

“Did he tell you that? Really? I wonder what 
you must have thought of me?” 

“Something of what Mr. Harum did, I fancy,” said 
John. 

“What was that?” 

“Pardon me,” was the reply, “but I have been 
snubbed once this morning.” 

She gave a little laugh. “Mr. Harum and I are 
great ‘neetups , 7 as he says. Is ‘ neetups 7 a nice word ? 77 
she asked, looking at her companion. 

“I should think so if I were in Mr. Harum’s place,” 
said John. “It means ‘cronies , 7 I believe, in his dic¬ 
tionary.” 

They had come to where Freeland Street terminates 
in the Lake Road, which follows the border of the lake 


DAVID HARUM 


3°7 


to the north and winds around the foot of it to the 
south and west. 

“Why !” exclaimed Miss Clara, “there comes David. 
I haven’t seen him this summer.” 

They halted, and David drew up, winding the reins 
about the whipstock and pulling offhis buckskin glove. 

“Howdo you do, Mr.Harum ?” 
said the girl, putting her hand 
in his. 

“How air ye, Miss Claricy?' 

Glad to see ye agin,” he said. 

“I’m settin’ up a little ev’ry . > 
day now, an’ you don’t look 1 
as if you was off your feed 
much, eh?” 

“ No,” she replied, laugh- 


UT1 


I’m in what you call 


V) 



1 TIP* 

pretty fair condi¬ 
tion, I think.” 

“ Wa’al, I reckon, 
he said, looking at 
her smiling face with 
the frankest admira¬ 
tion. “Guess you 
come out a little 
finer ev’ry season, don’t ye? Hard work to keep ye 
out o’ the Hree-fer-all ’ class, I guess. How’s all the 
folks? ” 

“Nicely, thanks,” she replied. 

“That’s right,” said David. 

“How is Mrs. Bixbee?” she inquired. 

“Wa’al,” said David with a grin, “I ben a little 
down in the mouth lately ’bout Polly—seems to be 


V 



DAVID HARUM 


308 

failin’ away some—don’t weigh much more’ii I do, I 
guess”; but Miss Clara only laughed at this gloomy 
report. 

“How is my horse Kirby?” she asked. 

“Wa’al, the ole bag-o’-bones is breathin’ yet,” said 
David, chuckling, “but lie’s putty well wore out—has 
to lean up agin the shed to whicker. Guess I’ll have 
to sell ye another putty soon now. Still, what the’ is 
left of him’s’s good’s ever ’twill be, an’ I’ll send him 
up in the mornin’.” He looked from Miss Clara to 
John, whose salutation he had acknowledged with the 
briefest of nods. 

“How’d you ketch him?” he asked, indicating our 
friend with a motion of his head. “Had to go after 
him with a four-quart measure, didn’t ye? or did he 
let ye corner him ? ” 

“Mr. Euston caught him for me,” she said, laughing, 
but coloring perceptibly, while John’s face grew very 
red. “I think I will run on and join my sister, and 
Mr. Lenox can drive home with you. Good-by, Mr. 
Harum. I shall be glad to have Kirby whenever it is 
convenient. We shall be glad to see you at Lakelawn,” 
she said to John cordially, “whenever you can come” ; 
and taking her prayer-book and hymnal from him, she 
sped away. 

“Look at her git over the ground ! ” said David, turn¬ 
ing to watch her while John got into the buggy. 
“Ain’t that a gait?” 

“She is a charming girl,” said John as old Jinny 
started off. 

“She’s the one I told you about that run off with my 
lioss,” remarked David, “an’ I alwns look after him fer 
her in the winter.” 


DAVID HARUM 


3°9 

“Yes, I know,” said John. “She was laughing about 
it to-day, and saying that you and she were great 
friends.” 

“She was, was she?” said David, highly pleased. 
“Yes, sir, that’s the girl, an’, scat my— ! if I was thirty 
years younger she c’d run off with me jest as easy—an’ 
1 dunno but what she could anyway,” he added. 

“Charming girl,” repeated John rather thoughtfully. 

“Wa’al,” said David, “I don’t know as much about 
girls as I do about some things ; my experience hain’t 
laid much in that line, but I wouldn’t like to take a 
contract to match her on any limit. I guess,” he added 
softly, “that the consideration in that deal ’d have to 
be ‘love an’ affection.’ Git up, old lady ! ” he exclaimed, 
and drew the whip along old Jinny’s back like a caress. 
The mare quickened her pace, and in a few minutes 
they drove into the barn. 


CHAPTER XXXIY 


“Where you ben?” asked Mrs. Bixbee of ber brother 
as the three sat at the one-o’clock dinner. “I see you 
drivin’ off somewheres.” 

“Ben up the Lake Road to ’Lizer Howe’s,” replied 
David. “He’s got a hoss’t I’ve some notion o’ buyin’.” 

“Ain’t the’ week-days enough,” she asked, “to do 
your horse-tradin’ in ’itliout breakin’ the Sabbath?” 

David threw back his head and lowered a stalk of 
the last asparagus of the year into His mouth. 

“Some o’ the best deals I ever made,” he said, “was 
made on a Sunday. Hain’t you never heard the say in’, 
‘ The better the day, the better the deal ’ ? ” 

“Wa’al,” declared Mrs. Bixbee, “the’ can’t be no 
blessin’ on money that’s made in that way, an’ you’d be 
better off without it.” 

“I dunno,” remarked her brother, “but Deakin Per¬ 
kins might ask a blessin’ on a hoss trade, but I never 
heard of it’s bein’ done, an’ I don’t know jest how the 
deakin ’d put it; it’d be two fer the deakin an’ one fer 
the other feller, though, somehow, you c’n bet.” 

“Humph!” she ejaculated. “I guess nobody ever 
did ; an’ I sh’d think you had money enough an’ horses 
enough an’ time enough to keep out o’ that bus’nis on 
Sundays, anyhow.” 

“Wa’al, wa’al,” said David, “mebbe I’ll swear off be¬ 
fore long, an’ anyway the’ wa’n’t no blessin’ needed on 
this trade, fer if you’ll ask ’Lizer lie'll tell ye the’ wa’n’t 
none made. ’Lizer ’s o’ your way o’ thinkin’ on the 
subjict.” 


DAVID HARUM 


3 11 

“That’s to his credit, anyway,” she asserted. 

“Jes 1 so,” observed her brother; “I’ve gen’ally no¬ 
ticed that folks Avho was of your way o’ thinkin’ never 
made no mistakes, an’ ’Lizer ’s a very consistent be¬ 
liever ” ; whereupon he laughed in a way to arouse 
both Mrs. Bixbee’s curiosity and suspicion. 

“I don’t see anythin’ in that to laugh at,” she de¬ 
clared. 

“He, he, he, he !” chuckled David. 

“Wa’al, you may’s well tell it one time’s another. 
That’s the way,” she said, turning to John with a smile 
trembling on her lips, “’t he picks at me the hull time.” 

“I’ve noticed it,” said John. “It’s shameful.” 

“I do it hully fer her good,” asserted David, with a 
grin. “If it wa’n’t fer me she’d git in time as narrer 
as them seven-day Babtists over to Peeble—they call 
’em the 1 narrer Babtists.’ You’ve heard on ’em, hain’t 
you, Polly'?” 

“No,” she said, without looking up from her plate, 
“I never heard on ’em, an’ I don’t much believe you 
ever did neither.” 

“What! ” exclaimed David. “You lived here goin’ 
on seventy year an’ never heard on ’em?” 

“David Harum! ” she cried, “I ain’t within ten 
year—” 

“Hold on,” he protested, “don’t throw that tea-cup. 
I didn’t say you was, I only said you was gain 1 on— an’ 
about them people over to Peeble, they’ve got the 
name of the ‘narrer Babtists’ because they’re so narrer 
in their views that fourteen on ’em c’n sit side an’ side 
in a buggy.” 

This astonishing statement elicited a laugh even from 

Aunt Polly, but presently she said : 

42 


DAVID HA HUM 


3 12 

“Wa’al, I’m glad you found one man that would stan’ 
you off on Sunday.” 

“Yes’m,” said her brother, “’Lizer’s jes’ your kind. 
I knew ’t he’d hurt his foot, an’ prob’ly couldn’t go 
to meet in’, an’ sure enough, he was settin’ on the stoop, 
an’ I drove in an’ pulled up in the lane alongside. We 



said good-mornin’ an’ all that, an’ I ast after the folks, 
an’ how his foot was gettin’ ’long, an’ so on, an’ finely 
I says, 1 J see your boy drivin’ a boss the other day that 
looked a little—f’m the middle o’ the road—as if he 
might match one I’ve got, an’ I thought I’d drive up 
this mornin’ an’ see if we couldn’t git up a dicker.’ 
Wa’al, he give a kind of a hitch in his chair as if his 
foot hurt him, an’ then he says, *1 guess I can’t deal 






















DAVID HARUM 


3V3 

with ye to-day. I don’t never do no bus’nis on Sun¬ 
day,’ he says. 

“‘ I’ve heard you was putty pertic’ler,’ I says, ‘but I’m 
putty busy jest about now, an’ I thought that niebbe 
once in a way, an’ seein’ that you couldn’t go to meetin’ 
anyway, an’ that I’ve come quite a ways an’ don’t know 
when I c’n see you agin, an’ so on, that mebbe you’d 
think, under all the circumstances, the’ wouldn’t be no 
great harm in’t—long’s I don’t pay over no money, et 
cetery,’ I says. 

u A T o,’ he says, shakin’ his head in a sort o’ mournful 
way, ‘I’m glad to see ye, an’ I’m sorry you’ve took all 
that trouble fer nothin’, but my conscience won’t allow 
me,’ he says, ‘to do no bus’nis on Sunday.’ 

“‘Wa’al,’ I says, ‘I don’t ask no man to go agin his 
conscience, but it wouldn’t be no very glarin’ transgres¬ 
sion on your part, would it, if I was to go up to the 
barn all alone by myself an’ look at the boss?’ I c’d 
see,” continued Mi*. Hamm, “that his face kind o’ 
brightened up at that, but he took his time to answer. 
‘Wa’al,’ lie says finely, ‘I don’t want to lav down no 
law fer you, an’ if you don’t see no harm in’t, I guess 
the’ ain’t nothin’ to prevent ye.’ So I got down an’ 
started fer the barn, an’—he, he, he !—when I’d got 
about a rod lie hollered after me, ‘He’s in the end stall,’ 
he says. 

“Wa’al,” the narrator proceeded, “I looked the crit¬ 
ter over an’ made up my mind about what he was wuth 
to me, an’ went back an’ got in, an’ drove into the yard, 
an’ turned round, an’ drew up agin ’longside the stoop. 
’Lizer looked up at me in an askin’ kind of a way, but 
lie didn’t say anythin’. 

“‘I s’pose,’ I says, ‘that you wouldn’t want me to 


3H 


DAVID HARUM 


say anythin’ more to ye, an’ I may’s well jog along 
back.’ 

“‘Wa’al,’ he says, ‘I can’t very well help bearin’ ye, 
kin I, if you got anythin’ to say?’ 

“‘Wa’al,’ I says, ‘the lioss ain’t exac’ly what I ex¬ 
pected to find, nor jes’ what I’m lookin’ fer 5 but I don’t 
say I wouldn’t ’a’ made a deal with ye if the price had 
ben right, an’ it hadn’t ben Sunday.’ I reckon,” said 
David with a wink at John, “that that there foot o’ 
hisn must ’a’ give him an extry twinge the way he 
wriggled in his chair 5 but I couldn’t break his lockjaw 
yit. So I gathered up the lines an’ took out the whip, 
an’ made all the motions to go, an’ then I kind o’ 
stopped, an’ says, ‘I don’t want you to go agin your 
princ’ples nor the law an’ gosp’l 011 my account, but 
the’ can’t be no harm in s’posin’ a ease, can the’ ? ’ No, 
he allowed that s’posin’ wa’n’t jes’ the same as doin’. 
‘Wa’al,’ says I, ‘now s’posin’ I'd come up here yestid’y 
as I have to-day, an’ looked your boss over, an’ said to 
you, “What price do you put on him?” what do you 
s’pose you’d ’a’ said?’ 

“‘Wa’al,’ he said, ‘puttin’ it that way, I s’pose I’d ’a’ 

said one-seventv.’ 

%/ 

“‘Yes,’ I says, ‘an’ then agin, if I’d said that he 
wa’n’t wuth that money to me, not bein’ jes’ what I 
wanted—an’ so he ain’t—but that I’d give one-forty, 
cash, what do you s’pose you’d ’a’ said?’ 

“ ‘ Wa’al,’ he says, givin’ a hitch, ‘ of course I don’t know 
jes’ what I would have said, but I guess? he says, ‘’t I’d ’a’ 
said, “If you’ll make it one-fifty you c’d have the boss.”’ 

‘“Wa’al, now,’ I says, ‘ s’posin’ I was to send Dick 
Larrabee up here in the inornin’ with the money, what 
do you s’pose you’d do?’ 


DAVID HARUM 


3 ] 5 

U ‘I s’pose I’d let him go/ says ’Lizer. 

Ul All right/ I says, an’ off I put. That conscience o’ 

’ Lizer’s/’ remarked Mr. Harum in conclusion, “is wuth 
its weight in gold, jest about” 

“David Harum/’ declared Aunt Polly, “you’d ort to 
be ’shamed o’ yourself.” 

“Wa’al,” said David, with an air of meekness, “if 
I’ve done anythin’ I’m sorry for, I’m willin’ to be 
forgi’n. Now, s’posin’—” 

“I’ve heard enough ’bout s’posin’ fer one day,” said 
Mrs. Bixbee decisively, “unless it’s s’posin’ you finish 
your dinner so’s’t Sairy c’n git through her work some¬ 
time.” 


CHAPTER XXXV 


After dinner John went to his room and David and 
his sister seated themselves on the “verandy.” Mr. 
Harum lighted a cigar and enjoyed his tobacco for a 
time in silence, while Mrs. Bixbee perused, with rather 
perfunctory diligence, the columns of her weekly 
church paper. 

“I seen a sight fer sore eyes this mornin’,” quoth 
David presently. 

“What was that!” asked Aunt Polly, looking up over 
her glasses. 

“Claricy Verjoos fer one ]>art on’t,” said David. 

“The Verjooses hev come, hev they ? Wa’al, that’s 
good. I hope she’ll come up an’ see me.” 

David nodded. “An’ the other part on’t was,” lie 
said, “she an’ that young feller of ourn was walkin’ 
together, an’ a putty slick pair they made, too.” 

“Ain’t she purty?” said Mrs. Bixbee. 

“They don’t make ’em no puttier,” affirmed David ; 
“an’ they was a nice pair. I couldn’t help thinkin’,” 
he remarked, “what a nice hitch-up they’d make.” 

“Guess the' ain’t much chance o’ that,” she observed. 

“No, I guess not either,” said David. 

“He hain’t got anythin’ to speak of, T s’pose, an’ 
though I reckon she’ll hev prop’ty some day, all that- 
set o’ folks seems to marry money, an’ some one’s alwus 
(lyin’ an’ leavin’ some on ’em some more. The’ ain’t 
nothin’ truer in the Bible,” declared Mrs. Bixbee 
with conviction, “’n that savin’ tliet them thet has, 
<»'ils ” 


DAVID HARUM 


3 1 / 

“That’s seemin’ly about the way it runs in gen’ral,” 
said David. 

“It don’t seem right,” said Mrs. Bixbee, with her 
eyes on her brother’s face. “Now there was all that 
money one o’ Mis’ Elbert Swayne’s relations left her 
last year, an’ Lucy Scramm, that’s poorer ’n poverty’s 
back kitchin, an’ the same relation to him that Mis’ 
Swayne was, only got a thousan’ dollars, an’ the 
Swavnes rich already. Not but what the thousan’ was 
a Godsend to the Scramms, but he might jest as well ’a’ 
left ’em comf’tibly off as not, ’stid of pilin’ more onto 
the Swaynes that didn’t need it.” 

“Does seem kind o’ tough,” David observed, leaning 
forward to drop his cigar ash clear of the veranda floor, 
“but that’s the way things goes, an’ I’ve often had to 
notice that a man’ll sometimes do the foolishist thing 
or the meanest thing in his hull life after he’s 
dead.” 

“You never told me,” said Mrs. Bixbee, after a 
minute or two, in which she appeared to be following- 
up a train of reflection, “much of anythin’ about John’s 
matters. Hain’t he ever told you anythin’ more’ll 
what you’ve told me? or don’t ye want me to know? 
Didn’t his father leave anythin’?” 

“The’ was a little money,” replied her brother, blow¬ 
ing out a cloud of smoke, “an’ a lot of unlikely chances, 
but nothin’ to live on.” 

“An’ the’ wa’n’t nothin’ for ’t but he had to come up 
here?” she queried. 

“He’d’a’ had to work on a salary somewhere, I reck¬ 
on,” was the reply. “The’ was one thing,” added David 
thoughtfully after a moment, “that’ll mebbe come to 
somethin’ sometime, but it may be a good while fust, 


DAVID HARUM 



an’ don’t ye ever let on to liim nor nobody else’t I 
ever said anythin’ about it.” 

“I won’t open my head to a livin’ soul,” she declared. 
“What was it?” 

“Wa’al, I don’t know ’s I ever told ye,” he said, 
“but a good many years ago I took some little hand in 

the oil bus’nis, but though I didn’t 



git in as deep as I wish now ’t I 
had, I’ve alwus kept up a 
kind of int’rist in what goes 
on in that line.” 

"t((t 

“No, I guess you never 
told me,” she said. 
“ Where you goin’ ?” 
as he got out of his 
chair. 

“Goin’ to git my 
cap,” he answered. 
“Dum the dum 
things ! I don’t be¬ 
lieve the’s a 
fly in Freeland 
County that 
hain’t danced 
„ r / the wild ka- 

chuky on my 
head sence we 
set here. Be 
I much specked?” he asked, as he bent his bald poll 
for her inspection. 

“Oh, go 'long ! ” she cried, as she gave him a laugh¬ 
ing push. 

“’Mongst other things,” he resumed, when he had 






DAVID HARUM 


3*9 


returned to his chair and relighted his cigar, “the’ was 
a piece of about ten or twelve hunderd acres of land 
down in Pennsylvany havin’ some coal on it, he told me 
he understood, but all the timber, ten inch an’ over, ’d 
ben sold off. He told me that his father’s head clerk 
told him that the old gentleman had tried fer a long 
time to dispose of it; but it called fer too much to de¬ 
velop it, I guess; ’t any rate, he couldn’t, an’ John’s 
got it to pay taxes on.” 

“I shouldn’t think it was wuth anythin’ to him but 
jest a bill of expense,” observed Mrs. Bixbee. 

“’Tain’t now,” said David, “an’ mebbe won’t be fer a 
good while ; still, it’s wuth somethin’, an’ I advised him 
to hold onto it on gen’ral princ’ples. I don’t know 
the pertic’ler prop’ty, of course,” he continued, “but 
I do know somethin’ of that section of country, 



fer I done 
a little 
prospectin’ 
round there 
myself once 
on a time. 
Butitwa’n’t 
in the oil 
territory 
them days, 


* ^ 


or wa’n’t 




known to be, anyway. 


“But it’s eatin’ itself up with taxes, ain’t it?” ob¬ 
jected Mrs. Bixbee. 

“Wa’al,” he replied, “it’s free an’ clear, an’ the taxes 
ain’t so very much—though they do stick it to an out¬ 
side owner down there—an’ the p’int is here : I’ve 
alwus thought they didn’t drill deep enough in that 


43 



3 20 


DAVID HARUM 


section. Tlie’ was some little traces of oil the time 
I told ye of, an’ I’ve heard lately that the’s some talk 
of a move to test the territory agin, an’, if anythin’ was 
to be found, the young feller’s prop’ty might be wutli 
somethin’ ; but,” he added, “of course the’ ain’t no 
tellin’.” 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


“Well,” said Miss Verjoos, when her sister overtook 
her, Mr. Euston having stopped at his own gate, “you 
and your latest discovery seemed to be getting on 
pretty well from the occasional sounds which came to 
my ears. What is he like? ” 

“He’s charming !” declared Miss Clara. 

“Indeed,” remarked her sister, lifting her eyebrows. 
“You seem to have come to a pretty broad conclusion 
in a very short period of time. 1 Charming’ doesn’t 
leave very much to be added on longer acquaintance, 
does it? ” 

“Oh, yes, it does,” said Miss Clara, laughing. “There 
are all degrees : Charming, very charming, most charm¬ 
ing, and perfectly charming.” 

“To be sure,” replied the other. “And there is the 
descending scale : Perfectly charming, most charming, 
very charming: charming, very pleasant, quite nice, 
and, oh, yes, well enough. Of course you have asked 
him to call ? ” 

“Yes, I have,” said Miss Clara. 

“Don’t you think that mamma—” 

“No, I don’t,” declared the girl, with decision. “I 
know from what Mr. Euston said, and I know from the 
little talk I had with him this morning, from his man¬ 
ner and —je ne sais quoi —that lie will be a welcome 
addition to a set of people in which every single one 
knows just what every oilier one will say on any given 
subject and on any occasion. You know how it is.” 

“Well,” said the elder sister, smiling and half shut- 


DAVID HARUM 


3 22 

ting her eyes with a musing look, “I think myself that, 
we all know each other a little, too well to make our 
affairs very exciting. Let us hope the new man will 
be all you anticipate, and,” she added with a little 
laugh, and a side glance at her sister, “that there will 
be enough of him to go round.” 

It hardly needs to be said that the aristocracy of 
Homeville and all the summer visitors and residents 
devoted their time to getting as much pleasure and 
amusement out of their life as was to be afforded by 
the opportunities at hand: Boating, tennis, riding, 
driving 5 an occasional picnic, by invitation, at one or 
the other of two very pretty waterfalls, far enough 
away to make the drive there and back a feature ; as 
much dancing in an informal way as could be managed 
by the younger people ; and a certain amount of flirta¬ 
tion, of course (but of a very harmless sort), to supply 
zest to all the rest. But it is not intended to give a 
minute account of the life nor to describe in detail all 
the pursuits and festivities which prevailed during the 
season. Enough to say that our friend soon had op¬ 
portunity to partake in them as much and often as was 
compatible with his duties. His first call at Lakelawn 
happened to be on an evening when the ladies were not 
at home, and it is quite certain that upon this, the oc¬ 
casion of his first essay of the sort, he experienced a 
strong feeling of relief to be able to leave cards instead 
of meeting a number of strange people, as he had 
thought would be likely. 

One morning, some days later, Peleg Hopkins came 
in with a grin, and said, “The’s some folks eout in front 
wants you to come eout an’ see ’em.” 

“Who are they?” asked John, who for the moment 


DAVID HARUM 


3 2 3 

was in the back room and had not seen the carriage 
drive up. 

‘‘The two Verjoos gals,” said Peleg, with another 
distortion of his freckled countenance. “One on ’em 
hailed me as I was cornin’ in and ast me to ast you to 
come eout.” 

John laughed a little as he wondered what their feel¬ 
ing would be were they aware that they were denomi¬ 
nated as the “Verjoos gals” by people of Peleg’s 
standing in the community. 

“We were so sorry to miss your visit the other even¬ 
ing,” said Miss Clara, after the usual salutations. 

John said something about the loss having been his 
own, and after a few remarks of no special moment the 
young woman proceeded to set forth her errand. 

“Do you know the Bensons from Syrchester? ” she 
asked. 

John replied that he knew who they were but had 
not the pleasure of their acquaintance. 

“Well,” said Miss Clara, “they are extremely nice 
people, and Mrs. Benson is very musical; in fact, Mr. 
Benson does something in that line himself. They have 
with them for a few days a violinist, Fairman I think 
his name is, from Boston, and a pianist—what was it, 
Juliet? ” 

“Schlitz, I think,” said Miss Verjoos. 

“Oh, yes, that is it, and they are coming to the house 
to-night, and we are going to have some music in an 
informal sort of way. We shall be glad to have you 
come, if you can.” 

“I shall be delighted,” said John sincerely. “At 
what time? ” 

“Any time you like,” she said 5 “but the Bensons will 


3 2 4 


DAVID HARUM 


probably got there about half past eight or nine 
o’clock.” 

“Thank you very much, and I shall be delighted,” 
he repeated. 

Miss Clara looked at him for a moment with a hesi¬ 
tating air. 

“There is another thing,” she said. 

“Yes! ” 

“Yes,” she replied, “I may as well tell you that you 
will surely be asked to sing. Quite a good many people 
who have heard you in the quartet in church are 
anxious to hear you sing alone, Mrs. Benson among 
them.” 

John’s face fell a little. 

“You do sing other than church music, do you not?” 
she asked. 

“Yes,” he admitted, “I know some other music.” 

“Do you think it would be a bore to you?” 

“No,” said John, who indeed saw no way out of it; 
“I will bring some music, with pleasure, if you wish.” 

“That’s very nice of you,” said Miss Clara, “and you 
will give us all a great deal of pleasure.” 

He looked at her with a smile. 

“That will depend,” he said, and after a moment, 
“Who will play for me?” 

“I had not thought of that,” was the reply. “I 
think I rather took it for granted that you could play 
for yourself. Can’t you?” 

“After a fashion, and simple things,” he said, “but on 
an occasion I would rather not attempt it.” 

The girl looked at her sister in some perplexity. 

“I should think,” suggested Miss Verjoos, speaking 
for the second time, “that Mr. or Herr Schlitz would 


DAVID HARUM 


3 2 5 

play your accompaniments, particularly if Mrs. Benson 
were to ask him 5 and if lie can play for the violin I 
should fancy he can for the voice.” 

“Very well,” said John, “we will let it go at that.” 

As he spoke, David came round the corner of the 
bank and up to the carriage. 

“How d’y’ do, Miss Verjoos? How air ye, Miss 
Claricy?” he asked, taking off his straw hat and mop¬ 
ping his face and head with his handkerchief. “Guess 
we’re goin’ to lose our sleighin’, ain’t we?” 

“It seems to be going pretty fast,” replied Miss 
Clara, laughing. 

“Yes’m,” he remarked, “we sli’ll be scrapin’ bare 
ground putty soon now if this weather holds on. 
How’s the old lioss now you got him agin?” lie asked. 
“Seem to ’ve wintered putty well? Putty chipper, is 
he?” 

“Better than ever,” she affirmed. “He seems to grow 
younger every year.” 

“Come, now,” said David, “that ain’t a-goin’ to do. 
I cal’lated to sell ye another hoss this summer anyway. 
Ben dependin’ on’t, in fact, to pay a dividend. The 
bankin’ bus’nis has been so neglected since this feller 
come that it don’t amount to much any more,” and he 
laid his hand 011 John’s shoulder, who colored a little 
as he caught a look of demure amusement in the somber 
eyes of the elder sister. 

“After that,” he said, “I think I had better get back 
to my neglected duties,” and he bowed his adieus. 

“No, sir,” said Miss Clara to David, “you must get 
your dividend out of some one else this summer.’ 

“Wa’al,” said lie, “I see I made a mistake takin’ such 
good care on him. Guess I'll hev to turn him over to 


DAVID HARUM 


3 26 

Dug Robinson to winter next year. Ben bavin' a little 
visit with John?” he asked. 

Miss Clara colored a little, with something of the 
same look which John had seen in her sister’s face. 

“We are going to have some music at the house to¬ 
night, and Mr. Lenox has kindly promised to sing for 
us,” she replied. 

“He has, has he?” said David, full of interest. 
“Wa’al, he’s the feller c’n do it if anybody can. We 
have singin’ an’ music up t’ the house ev’ry Sunday 
night—me an’ Polly an’ him—an’ it’s fine. Yes, ma’am, 
I don’t know much about music myself, but I c’n beat 
time, an’ he’s got a stack o’ music more’n a mile high, 
an’ one o’ the songs he sings ’ll jest make the windows 
rattle. That’s my fav’rit,” averred Mr. Harum. 

“Do you remember the name of it ?” asked Miss Clara. 

“No,” he said; “John told me, an’ I guess I’d know 
it if I heard it; but it’s about a feller sit tin’ one day by 
the org’n an’ not feelin’ exac’ly right—kind o’ tired an’ 
out o’ sorts, an’ not knowin’jes’ where he was drivin’ at 
—jes’joggin’ ’long with a loose rein fer quite a piece, an’ 
so on ; an’ then, by an’ by, strikin’ right into his gait an’ 
goin’ on stronger ’n’ stronger, an’ finely finishin’ up with 
an A—men that carries him quarter way round the 
track ’fore he c’n pull up. That’s my fav’rit,” Mr. 
Harum repeated, “’cept when him an’ Polly sings to¬ 
gether, an’ if that ain’t a show—pertic’lerly Polly—I 
don’t want a cent. No, ma’am, when him an’ Polly gits 
good an’ goin’ you can’t see ’em fer dust.” 

“I should like to hear them,” said Miss Clara, laugh¬ 
ing, “and I should particularly like to hear your favor¬ 
ite, the one which ends with the Amen—the very large 
A—men.” 



DAVID HARUM 


3 2 7 

“Seventeen hands/’ declared Mr. Harum. “Must 
you be goin’ ! Wa’al, glad to hev seen ye. Polly’s 
hopin’ you’ll come an’ see her putty soon.” 

“I will,” she promised. “Give her my love, and tell 
her so, please.” 

They drove away and David sauntered in, went be¬ 
hind the desks, and perched himself up on a stool near 
the teller’s counter as he often did when in the office 
and when John was not particularly engaged. 

“Got you roped in, have they!” he said, using his 
hat as a fan. “Scat my— ! but ain’t this a ring-tail 
squealer ! ” 

“It is very hot,” responded John. 

“Miss Claricy says you’re goin’ to sing fer ’em up to 
their house to-night.” 

“Yes,” said John, with a slight shrug of the shoul¬ 
ders, as he pinned a paper strap around a pile of bills 
and began to count out another. 

“Don’t feel very fierce fer it, I guess, do ye!” said 
David, looking shrewdly at him. 

“Not very,” said John, with a short laugh. 

“Feel a little skittish ’bout it, eh!” suggested Mr. 
Harum. “Don’t see why ye should—anybody that c’n 
put up a tune the way you kin.” 

“It’s rather different,” observed the younger man, 
“singing for you and Mrs. Bixbee and standing up before 
a lot of strange people.” 

“H-m, h-m,” said David, with a nod ; “difference 
’tween joggin’ along on the road an’ drivin’ a fust heat 
on the track ; in one case the’ ain’t nothin’ up, an’ ye 
don’t care whether you git there a little more pre¬ 
viously or a little less ; an’ in the other the’s the crowd, 
an’ the judges, an’ the stake, an’ your record, an’ mebbe 
44 


DAVID HARUM 


328 

the pool box into the barg’in, that’s all got to be con¬ 
sidered. Feller don’t mind it so much after he gits 
fairly off, but thinkin’ on’t beforehand ’s fidgity 
bus’nis.” 

“You have illustrated it exactly,” said John, laugh¬ 
ing, and much amused at David’s very characteristic as 

0 / V 

well as accurate illustration. 

“My!” exclaimed Aunt Polly, when John came into 
the sitting-room after dinner dressed to go out. “My ! 
don’t he look nice? I never see you in them clo’es. 
Come here a minute,” and she picked a thread off his 
sleeve and took the opportunity to turn him round for 
the purpose of giving him a thorough inspection. 

“That wa’n’t what you said when you see me in my 
gold-plated harniss,” remarked David, with a grin. 
“You didn’t say nothin’ putty to me.” 

“Humph ! I guess the’s some diff’rence,” observed 
Mrs. Bixbee with scorn, and her brother laughed. 

“How was you cal’latin’ to git there?” he asked, 
looking at our friend’s evening shoes. 

“I thought at first I would walk,” was the reply, “but 
I rather think I will stop at Robinson’s and get him to 
send me over.” 

“I guess you won’t do nothin’ o’ the sort,” declared 
David. “Mike’s all hitched to take you over, an’ when 
you’re ready jes’ ring the bell.” 

“You’re awfully kind,” said John gratefully, “but I 
don’t know when I shall be coming home.” 

“Come back when you git a good ready,” said Mr. 
Hamm. “If you keep him an’ the boss waitin’ a spell. 
I guess they won’t take cold this weather.” 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


The Verjoos liouse, of old red brick, stands about a 
hundred feet back from the north side of the Lake 
Road, on the south shore of the lake. Since its original 
construction a porte-cochere has been built upon the 
front. A very broad hall, from which rises the stair¬ 
way with a double turn and landing, divides the main 
body of the house through the middle. On the left, as 
one enters, is the great drawing-room; on the right a 
parlor opening into a library; and beyond, the dining¬ 
room, which looks out over the lake. The hall opens 
in the rear upon a broad, covered veranda, facing the 
water, with a flight of steps to a lawn which slopes 
down to the lake shore, a distance of some hundred and 
fifty yards. 

John had to pass through a little flock of young- 
people who stood near and about the entrance to the 
drawing-room, and having given his package of music 
to the maid in waiting, with a request that it be put 
upon the piano, he mounted the stairs to deposit his 
hat and coat, and then went down. 

In the south end of the drawing-room were some 
twenty people sitting and standing about, most of them 
the elders of the families who constituted society in 
Homeville, many of whom John had met, and nearly 
all of whom he knew by sight and name. On the 
edge of the group, and half-way down the room, were 
Mrs. Verjoos and her younger daughter, who gave 
him a cordial greeting; and the elder lady was kind 
enough to repeat her daughter’s morning assurances 


330 DAVID HARUM 

of regret that they were out on the occasion of his 
call. 

“I trust you have been as good as your word/’ said 
Miss Clara, “and brought some music.” 

“Yes, it is on the piano,” he replied, looking across 
the room to where the instrument stood. 

The girl laughed. “I wish,” she said, “you could 
have heard what Mr. Harum said this morning about 
your singing, particularly his description of The Lost 
Chord, and I wish that I could repeat it just as he 
gave it.” 

“It’s about a feller sittin’ one day by the org’n,” came 
a voice from behind John’s shoulder, so like David’s as 
fairly to startle him, “an’ not feel in’ exac’ly right—kind 
o’ tired an’ out o’ sorts, an’ not knowin’ jes’ where he 
was drivin’ at—jes’ joggin’ along with a loose rein fer 
quite a piece, an’ so on • an’ then, by an’ by, strikin’ 
right into his gait an’ goin’ on stronger an’ stronger, 
an’ finely finishin’ up with an A—men that carries 
him quarter way round the track ’fore he c’n pull 
up.” 

They all laughed except Miss Yerjoos, whose gravity 
was unbroken, save that behind the dusky windows of 
her eyes, as she looked at John, there was for an instant 
a gleam of mischievous drollery. 

“Good-evening, Mr. Lenox,” she said. “I am very 
glad to see you,” and hardly waiting for his response, 
she turned and walked away. 

“That is Juliet all over,” said her sister. “You 
would not think, to see her ordinarily, that she was 
given to that sort of thing, but once in a while, when 
she feels like it — well—pranks ! She is the funniest 
creature that ever lived, I believe, and can mimic and 


DAVID HARUM 


33 1 


imitate any mortal creature. She sat in the carriage 
this morning, and one might have fancied from her 
expression that she hardly heard a word, but I haven’t 
a doubt that she could repeat every syllable that 
was uttered. Oh, here come the Bensons and their 
musicians.” 

John stepped back a pace or two toward the end of 
I lie room, but was presently recalled and presented to 
the newcomers. After a little talk the Bensons settled 
themselves in the corner at the lower end of the room, 
where seats were placed for the two musicians, and our 
friend took a seat near where he had been standing. 
The violinist adjusted his folding music-rest. Miss 
Clara stepped over to the entrance door and put up 
her finger at the young people in the hall. “ After the 
music begins,” she said, with a shake of the head, “if I 
hear one sound of giggling or chattering, 1 will send 
every one of you young heathen home. Bemember 
now ! This isn’t your party at all.” 

“But, Clara dear,” said Sue Tenaker (aged fifteen), 
“if we are very good and quiet do you think they 
would play for us to dance a little by and by?” 

“Impudence!” exclaimed Miss Clara, giving the 
girl’s cheek a playful slap and going back to her place. 
Miss Yerjoos came in and took a chair by her sister. 
Mrs. Benson leaned forward and raised her eyebrows 
at Miss Clara, who took a quick survey of the room and 
nodded in return. Herr Schlitz seated himself on the 
piano-chair, pushed it a little back, drew it a little for¬ 
ward to the original place, looked under the piano at 
the pedals, took out his handkerchief and wiped his face 
and hands, and after arpeggioing up and down the key¬ 
board, swung into a waltz of Chopin’s (Opus 34, Mini- 


33 2 


DAVID HARUM 



ber 1), a favorite of our friend’s, and which he would 
have thoroughly enjoyed—for it was splendidly played— 
if he had not been uneasily apprehensive that he might 
be asked to sing after it. And while on some accounts 
he would have been glad of (lie opportunity to “have 
it over/’ he felt a cowardly sense of relief when the 
violinist came forward for Ihe next number. There 

had been enthusiastic ap¬ 
plause at the north end of 
the room, and more or 
less clapping of hands 
at the south end, but 
not enough to 
impel the 
pianist to sup¬ 
plement his 
perform an ce 
at the time. 
The violin 

number was so 
well received 
that Mr. Fair- 
man added a 
little minuet of 
Boccherini’s without accom¬ 
paniment, and then John felt that 
his time had surely come. But he had to sit, drawing 
long breaths, through a Liszt fantasy on themes from 
Faust before his suspense was ended by Miss Clara, who 


was apparently mistress of ceremonies, and who said to 
him, “Will you sing now, Mr. Lenox?’’ 

lie rose and went to the end of the room where the 
pianist was sitting. “1 have been asked to sing,” he 



DAVID HARUM 


said to that gentleman. “Can I induce you to he so 
kind as to play for me!” 

“I am sure he will,” said Mrs. Benson, looking at 
Herr Schlitz. 

u 0h, yes, I blay for you if you vant,” he said. 
“There is your moosic?” They went over to the 
piano. “Oh, ho ! Jensen, Lassen, Helmund, Grieg— 
you zing dem i ” 

“Some of them,” said John. 

The pianist opened the Jensen album. “You vant 
to zing one of dese ! ” he asked. 

“As well as anything,” replied John, who had 
changed his mind a dozen times in the last ten minutes 
and was ready to accept any suggestion. 

“Yer’ goot,” said the other. “Ye dry dis : Lelm’ 
deine Wang’ an meine Wang’.” His face brightened 
as John began to sing the German words. In a measure 
or two the singer and player were in perfect accord, 
and as the former found his voice the ends of his 
lingers grew warm again. A t the end of the song the 
applause was distributed about as after the Chopin 
waltz. 

“Sehrschon!” exclaimed Herr Schlitz, looking up 
and nodding; “you must zing zome more,” and he 
played the first bars of Marie, am Fenster sit-zest du, 
humming the words under his breath, and quite oblivi¬ 
ous of any one but himself and the singer. 

“Zierlich !” he said when the song was done, reach¬ 
ing for the collection of Lassen. “Mit deinen blauen 
Augen,” he hummed, keeping time with his hands ; but 
at this point Miss Clara came across the room, followed 
by her sister. * 

“Mrs. Tenaker,” she said, laughing, “asked me to ask 


334 


DAVID HARUM 


you, M r. Lenox, if you wouldn't please sing something 
they could understand.” 

“I have a song I should like to hear you sing,” said 
Miss Verjoos. “There is an obbligato for violin and we 
have a violinst here. It is a beautiful song—Tosti’s 
Beauty’s Eyes. Do you know it?” 

“Yes,” he replied. 

“Will you sing it for me?” she asked. 

“With the greatest pleasure,” he answered. 

Once, as he sang the lines of the song, he looked up. 
Miss Verjoos was sitting with her elbows on the arm of 
her chair, her cheek resting upon her clasped hands and 
her dusky eyes fastened upon his face. As the song 
concluded she rose and walked away. Mrs. Tenaker 
came over to the piano and put out her hand. 

“Thank you so much for your singing, Mr. Lenox,” 
she said. “Would you like to do an old woman a 
favor? ” 

“Very much so,” said John, smiling and looking first 
at Mrs. Tenaker and then about the room, “but there 
are no old women here as far as I can see.” 

“Very pretty, sir, very pretty,” she said, looking very 
graciously at him. “Will you sing Annie Laurie for 
me ? ” 

“With all my heart,” he said, bowing. He looked 
at Herr Seklitz, who shook his head. 

“Let me play it for you,” said Mrs. Benson, coming 
over to the piano. 

“Where do you want it?” she asked, modulating 
softly from one key to another. 

“I think I) flat will be about right,” he replied. 
“Kindly play a little bit of it.” 

The sound of the symphony brought most of even 



DAVID HARUM 


335 

the young people into the drawing-room. At the end 
of the first verse there was a subdued rustle of applause, 
a little more after the second, and at the end of the 
song so much of a burst of approval as could be pro¬ 
duced by the audience. Mrs. Benson looked up into 
John’s face and smiled. 

“We appear to have scored the success of the even¬ 
ing,” she said with a touch of sarcasm. 

Miss Clara joined them. “What a dear old song that 
is !” she said. “Did you see Aunt Charlie” (Mrs. Ten- 
aker) “wiping her eyes?—and that lovely thing of 
Tosti’s! We are ever so much obliged to you, Mr. 
Lenox.” 

John bowed his acknowledgments. 

“Will you take Mrs. Benson out to supper? There 
is a special table for you musical people at the east end 
of the veranda.” 

“Is this merely a segregation, or a distinction?” said 
John as they sat down. 

“We shall have to wait developments to decide that 
point, I should say,” replied Mrs. Benson. “I suppose 
that fifth place was put on the off* chance that Mr. 
Benson might be of our party, but,” she said, with 
a short laugh, “he is probably nine fathoms deep in 
a flirtation with Sue Tenaker. He shares Artemus 
Ward’s tastes, who said, you may remember, that he 
liked little girls—big ones too.” 

A maid appeared with a tray of eatables, and pres¬ 
ently another with a tray on which were glasses and a 
bottle of Pommery sec. “Miss Clara’s compliments,” 
she said. 

“What do you think now?” asked Mrs. Benson, 
laughing. 


45 


DAVID HAKUM 


33 6 

“Distinctly a distinction, I should say,” he replied. 

“Das ist nicht so schlecht,” grunted Herr Schlitz as 
lie put half a pate into his mouth, “hot I vould brefer 
beer.” 

“The music has been a great treat to me,” remarked 
John. “I have heard nothing of the sort for two 
years.” 

“You have quite contributed your share of the 
entertainment,” said Mrs. Benson. 

“You and I together,” he responded, smiling. 

“You haf got a be-oodifool woice,” said Herr Schlitz, 
speaking with a mouthful of salad, “und you zing lige 
a moosician, und you bronounce your vorts very goot.” 

“Thank you,” said John. 

After supper there was more singing in the drawing¬ 
room, but it was not of a very classical order. Some¬ 
thing short and taking for violin and piano was followed 
by an announcement from Herr Schlitz. 

“I zing you a zong,” he said. The worthy man “bre- 
ferred beer,” but had, perhaps, found the wine quicker 
in effect, and in a tremendous bass voice he roared out, 
“Im tiefen Keller sitz’ ich hier, auf einem Pass voll Ke- 
ben,” which, if not wholly understood by the audience, 
had some of its purport conveyed by the threefold 
repetition of “trinke” at the end of each verse. Then 
a deputation waited upon John, to ask in behalf of the 
girls and boys if he knew and could sing Solomon Levi. 

“Yes,” he said, sitting down at the piano, “if you’ll 
all sing with me” ; and it came to pass that that classic, 
followed by Bring Back my Bonnie to Me, Paddy 
Duffy’s Cart, There’s Music in the Air, and sundry 
other ditties dear to all hearts, was given by “the full 
strength of the company” with such enthusiasm that 


DAVID HARUM 


337 


even Mr. Fairman was moved to join in with his violin ; 
and when the Soldier’s Farewell was given, Herr Schlitz 
would have sung the windows out of their frames had 
they not been open. Altogether, the evening’s pro¬ 
gramme was brought to an end with a grand climax. 

“Thank you very much,” said John as he said good¬ 
night to Mrs. Verjoos. “I don’t know when I have 
enjoyed an evening so much.” 

“Thank you very much,” she returned graciously. 
“You have given us all a great deal of pleasure.” 

“Yes,” said Miss Verjoos, giving her hand with a 
mischievous gleam in her half-shut eyes, “I was en¬ 
chanted with Solomon Levi.” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII . 


David and John had been driving for some time in 
silence. The elder man was apparently musing upon 
something which had been suggested to his mind. The 
horses slackened their gait to a walk as they began the 
ascent of a long hill. Presently the silence was broken 
by a sound which caused John to turn his head with a 
look of surprised amusement—Mr. Harum was singing. 
The tune, if it could be so called, was scaleless, and 
these were the words : 

“Monday niornin' I married me a wife , 

Thinkin' to lead a more contented life; 

Fiddlin' an' dancin' the' was played, 

To see how unhappy poor 7 was made. 

“ Tuesday mornin', 'bout break o' day , 

While my head on the pillev did lay , 

She tuned up her clack , an' scolded more 
Than I ever heard before .” 

u Never heard me sing before, did ye 1 ” he said, look¬ 
ing with a grin at his companion, who laughed and 
said that he had never had that pleasure. “Wa’al, 
that’s all ’t I remember ©n’t,” said David, “an’ I 
dunno’s I’ve thought about it in thirty year. The’ was 
a number o’ verses which carried ’em through the rest 
o’ the week, an’ ended up in a ease of ’sault an’ battery, 
I rec’leet, but I don’t remember jest how. Somethin’ 
we ben sayin’ put the thing into my head, I guess.” 

“I should like to hear the rest of it,” said John, 
smiling. 


DAVID HARUM 


339 

David made no reply to this, and seemed to be turn¬ 
ing something’over in his mind. At last he said : 

“Mebbe Polly’s told ye that I’m a wid’wer.” 

John admitted that Mrs. Bixbee had said as much as 
that. 

“Yes, sir,” said David, “I’m a wid’wer of long 
standin’.” 

No appropriate comment suggesting itself to his 
listener, none was made. 

“I hain’t never cared to say much about it to Polly,” 
he remarked, “though fer that matter Jim Bixbee, f’m 
all accounts, was about as poor a shack as ever was 
turned out, I guess, an’—” 

John took advantage of the slight hesitation to inter¬ 
pose against what he apprehended might be a lengthy 
digression on the subject of the deceased Bixbee by 
saying : 

“You were quite a young fellow when you were 
married, I infer.” 

“Two or three years younger ’n you be, I guess,” 
said David, looking at him, “an’ a putty green colt too 
in some ways,” he added, handing over the reins and 
whip while he got out his silver tobacco-box and helped 
himself to a liberal portion of its contents. It was plain 
that he was in the mood for personal reminiscences. 

“As I look back on’t now r ,” he began, “it kind o’ 
seems as if it must ’a’ ben some other feller, an’ yet I 
remember it all putty dum’d w r ell too—all but one 
thing, an’ that the biggist part on’t, an’ that is how I 
ever come to git married at all. She w r as a w r iddo’ at 
the time, an’ kep’ the boardin’-house wdiere I w r as livin’. 
It was up to Syrchester. I was better-lookin’ them 
days ’n I be now—had more hair, at any rate—though,” 


340 


DAVID HARUM 


be remarked with a grin, “I was alwus a better goer 
than T was a looker. \ was doin’ fairly well," he con¬ 
tinued, “but mebbe not so well as was thought by 
some. 

“Wa’al, she was a good-lookin’ woman, some older ’n 
I was. She seemed to take some shine to me. I'd 
roughed it putty much alwus, an’ she was putty clever 
to me. She was a good talker, liked a joke an’ a laugh, 
an’ had some education, an’ it come about that I got 
to beauin’ her round quite a consid’able, an’ used to 
go an’ set in her room or the parlor with her sometimes 


evenin’s an’ all 
that, an’ I 
wouldn’t deny 
that I liked it 



putty well.” 


It was some 
minutes before 


Mr. Harum resumed his narrative. The reins were 
sagging over the dashboard, held loosely between the 
first two fingers and thumb of his left hand, while with 
his right he had been making abstracted cuts at the 
thistles and other eligible marks along the roadside. 

“Wa’al,” he said at last, “we was married, an’ our 
wheels tracked putty well fer quite a consid’able spell. 
I got to thinkin’ more of her all the time, an’ she me, 
seemin’ly. We took a few days off together two three 
times that summer, to Niag'ry, an’ Saratogy, an’ round, 
an’ had real good times. I got to thinkin’ that the 
state of matrimony was a putty good institution. 
When it come along fall, I was doin’ well enough so’t 
she could give up bus’nis, an’ I hired a house an’ we 
set up housekeeping It was really more on my account 




DAVID HARUM 


34 1 


than hern, fer I got to kind o’ feelin’ that when the 
meat was tough or the pie wa’n’t done on the bottom 
that I was ’sociated with it, an’ gen’ally I wanted a 
place of my own. But,” he added, “I guess it was a 
mistake, fur’s she was concerned.” 

“Why?” said John, feeling that some show of inter¬ 
est was incumbent. 

“I reckon,” said David, “’t she kind o’ missed the 
comp’ny an’ the talk at table, an’ the goin’s on gen’- 
ally, an’ mebbe the work of runnin’ the place—she was 
a great worker—an’ it got to be some different, I s’pose, 
after a spell, settin’ down to three meals a day with jest 
only me ’stid of a tableful, to say nothin’ of the even- 
in’s. I was glad enough to have a place of my own, 
but at the same time I hadn’t ben used to settin’ 
round with nothin’ pertic’ler to do or say, with some¬ 
body else that hadn’t neither, an’ I wa’n’t then nor 
ain’t now, fer that matter, any great hand fer readin’. 
Then, too, we’d moved into a diff’rent part o’ the town 
where my wife wa’n’t acquainted. Wa’al, anyway, fust 
things begun to drag some—she begun to have spells of 
not speakin’, an’ then she begun to git notions about 
me. Once in a while I’d hev to go down-town on some 
bus’nis in the evenin’. She didn’t seem to mind it at 
fust, but bom-by she got it into her head that the’ 
wa’n’t so much bus’nis goin’ on as I made out, an’ 
though along that time she’d set sometimes mebbe 
the hull evenin’ without sayin’ anythin’ more’n yes or 
no, an’ putty often not that, yet if I went out there’d 
lie a flare-up ; an’ as things went on the’d be spells fer 
a fortni’t together when I couldn’t any time of day git 
a word out of her hardly, unless it was to go fer me 
’bout somethin’ that mebbe I’d done an’ mebbe I 


34 2 


DAVID HARUM 


hadn’t—it didn’t make no diff’rence. An’ when them 
spells was on, what she didn’t take out o’ me she did 
out o’ the house—diggin’ an’ scrubbing takin’ up car- 
pits, layin’ down carpits, shiftin’ the furniture, eatin’ 
one day in the kitchin an’ another in the set tin’-room, 
an’ steepin’ ’most anywhere. She wa’n’t real well after 
a while, an’ the wuss she seemed to feel, the fiercer she 
was fer scrubbin’ an’ diggin’ an’ upsettin’ things in 
gen’ral; an’ bom-by she got so she couldn’t keep a hired 
girl in the house more’n a day or two at a time. She 
either wouldn’t have ’em, or they wouldn’t stay, an’ 
more’n half the time we was without one. This can’t 
int’rist you much, can it?” said Mr. Harum, turning to 
his companion. 

“On the contrary,” replied John, “it interests me 
very much. I was thinking,” he added, “that probably 
the state of your wife’s health had a good deal to do 
with her actions and views of things, but it must have 
been pretty hard on you all the same.” 

“Wa’al, yes,” said David, “I guess that’s so. Her 
health wa’n’t jes’ right, an’ she showed it in her looks. 
I noticed that she pined an’pindled some, but I thought 
the’ was some natural criss-crossedniss mixed up into 
it too. But I tried to make allow’nces an’ the best o’ 
things, ail’ git along’s well’s I could ; but things kind 
o’ got wuss an’ wuss. I told ye that she begun to have 
notions about me, an’ ’t ain’t hardly nec’sary to say 
what shape they took, an’ after a while, mebbe a year ’n’ 
a half, she got so’t she wa’n’t satisfied to know where 
I was nights —she wanted to know where I was daytimes. 
Kind o’ makes me laugh now,” he observed, “it seems 
so redic’lous; but it wa’n’t no laughin’ matter then. 
If I looked out o’ winder she’d hint it up to me that I 


DAVID HARUM 


343 

was watchin’ some woman. She grudged me even to 
look at a picture paper ; an’ one day when we happened 
to be walkin’ together she showed feelin’ about one o’ 
them wooden Injun women outside a cigar store.” 

“Olp come now, Mr. Harum,” said John, laughing. 

“Wa’al,” said David, with a short laugh, “mebbe I 
did stretch that a little 5 but ’s I told ye, she wanted 
to know where I was daytimes well’s nights, an’ ev’ry 
once ’11 a while she’d turn up at my bus’nis place, an’ 
if I wa’n’t there she’d set an’ wait fer me, an’ I’d either 
have to go home with her or have it out in the office. 
I don’t mean to say that all the sort of thing I’m tellin’ 
ye of kep’ up all the time. It kind o’ run in streaks ; 
but the streaks kep’ cornin’ oftener an’ oftener, an’ you 
couldn’t never tell when the’ was goin’ to appear. 
Matters’d go along putty well fer a while, an’ then, all 
of a sudden, an’ fer nothin’’t I could see, the’ ’d come 
on a thunder-shower ’fore you c’d git in out o’ the wet.” 

“ Singular,” said John thoughtfully. 

“Yes, sir,” said David. “Wa’al, it come along to the 
second spring, ’bout the first of May. She’d ben more 
like folks fer about a week mebbe ’n she had fer a long 
spell, an’ I begun to chirk up some. I don’t remember 
jest how I got the idee, but f’111 somethin’ she let drop 
I gathered that she was thinkin’ of havin’ a new bunnit. 
I will say this for her,” remarked David, “that she was 
an economical woman, an’ never spent no money jes’ 
fer the sake o’ spendin’ it. Wa’al, we’d got along so 
nice fer a while that I felt more’n usual like pleasin’ 
her, an’ I allowed to myself that if she wanted a new 
bunnit, money shouldn’t stand in the way, an’ I set out 
to give her a supprise.” 

They had reached the level at the top of the long 
46 


344 


DAVID HARUM 


hill and the horses had broken into a trot, when Mr. 
Harum’s narrative was interrupted and his equanimity 
upset by the onslaught of an excessively shrill, active, 
and conscientious dog of the “yellow” variety, which 
barked and sprang about in front of the mares with 
such frantic assiduity as at last to communicate enough 
of its excitement to them to cause them to bolt forward 
on a run, passing the yellow nuisance, which, with the 
facility of long practice, dodged the cut which David 
made at it in passing. It was with some little trouble 
that the horses were brought back to a sober pace. 

“Dum that dum’d dog!” exclaimed David, with 
fervor, looking back to where the object of his execra¬ 
tions was still discharging convulsive yelps at the re¬ 
treating vehicle, “I’d give a five-dollar note to git one 
good lick at him. I’d make him holler ‘pen-an’-ink ’ 
once! Why anybody’s willin’ to have such a dum’d, 
wuthless, pestiferous varmint as that round’s more’ll 
I c’n understand. I’ll bet that the days they churn, 
that critter, unless they ketch him an’ tie him up the 
night before, ’ll be under the barn all day, an’ lie’s jes’ 
blowed off steam enough to run a dog churn a hull 
forenoon.” 

Whether or not the episode of the dog had diverted 
Mr. Harum’s mind from his previous topic, he did not 
resume it until John ventured to remind him of it, 
with : “You were saying something about the surprise 
for your wife.” 

“That’s so,” said David. “Yes, wa’al, when I went 

home that night I stopped into a mil’nery store, an’ 

after I’d stood round a minute, a girl come up an’ ast 

me if she c’d show me anythin’.” 

«/ 

“/I want to buy a bunnit,’ I says, an’ she kind o’ 


DAVID HARUM 



laughed. ‘No,’ I says, ‘it ain’t fer me, it’s fer a lady,’ I 
says ; an’ then we both laughed. 

“‘What sort of a bunnit do you want?’ she says. 

Wa’al, I dunno,’ I says, ‘this is the fust time I ever 
done anythin’ in the bunnit line.’ So she went over to 
a glass case an’ took one out 
an’ held it up, turnin’ it 
round on her hand. 


uc 


Wa’al,’ 1 says, 

‘I guess it’s putty 
enough fur’s it goes, 
but the’ don’t seem 
to be much of any¬ 
thin’ to it. Iiain’t ye 
got somethin’ a little 
bit bigger an’—’ 

“‘Showier V she says. ‘ How 
is this ? ’ she says, doin’ the 
same trick with another. 

“‘Wa’al,’ I says, ‘that looks 
more like it, but I had an 
idee that the A 1, trible-extry fine article 
had more traps on’t, an’ ’most any one 
might have on either one o’ them you’ve showed me 
an’ not attrac’ no attention at all. Yon needn’t mind 
expense,’ I says. 

“‘Oh, very well,’ she says, ‘I guess I know what you 
want,’ an’ goes over to another case an’ fetches out 
another bunnit twice as big as either the others, an’ 
with more notions on’t than you c’d shake a stick at— 
flowers, an’ gard’n stuff, an’ fruit, an’ glass beads, an’ 
feathers, an’ all that, till ye couldn’t see what they was 
fixed on to. She took holt on’t with both hands, the 










DAVID HARUM 


34 6 

girl did, an’ put it onto her head, an’ kind o’ smiled 
an’ turned round slow so’t I c’d git a gen’ral view 
on’t. 

“‘Style all right?’ I says. 

“‘The very best of its kind/ she says. 

“‘How ’bout the kind ?’ I says. 

“‘The very best of its style/ she says.” 

John laughed outright. David looked at him for a 
moment with a doubtful grin. 

“She was a slick one, wa’n’t she?” he said. “What 
a boss trader she would ’a’ made ! I didn’t ketch on at 
the time, but I reflected afterward. Wa’al,” he re¬ 
sumed, after this brief digression, “‘how much is it?’ I 
says. 

“‘Fifteen dollars/ she says. 

“‘What?’ I says. ‘Scat my— ! I c’d buy head rig- 
gin’ enough to last me ten years fer that.’ 

“‘We couldn’t sell it for less/ she says. 

“‘S’posin’ the lady’t I’m buyin’ it fer don’t jest like 
it/ I says, ‘can you alter it or swap somethin’ else for 
it?’ 

“‘Cert’nly, within a reasonable time/ she says. 

“‘Wa’al, all right/ I says, ‘do her up.’ An’ so she 
wrapped the thing round with soft paper an’ put it in 
a box, an’ I paid for’t an’ moseyed along up home, 
feelin’ that ev’ry man, woman, an’ child had their eyes 
on my parcel, but thinkin’ how tickled my wife would 
be.” 



CHAPTER XXXIX 


The road they were on was a favorite drive with the 
two men, and at the point where they had now arrived 
David always halted for a look back and down upon the 
scene below them—to the south, beyond the interven¬ 
ing fields, bright with maturing crops, lay the village ; 
to the west the blue lake, winding its length like a 
broad river, and the river itself a silver ribbon, till it 
was lost beneath the southern hills. 

Xeither spoke. For a few minutes John took in the 
scene with the pleasure it always afforded him, and 
then glanced at his companion, who usually had some 
comment to make upon anything which stirred his 
admiration or interest. He was gazing, not at the 
landscape, but apparently at the top of the dashboard. 
“Ho, hum,” he said, straightening the reins, with a 
“C’lk,” to the horses, and they drove along for a while 
in silence—so long, in fact, that our friend, while aware 
that the elder man did not usually abandon a topic 
until he had “had his say out,” was moved to suggest 
a continuance of the narrative which had been rather 







DAVID HARUM 


34* 

abruptly broken off, and in which he had become con¬ 
siderably interested. 

“Was your wife pleased?” he asked at last. 

“Where was I?” asked the other in return. 

“You were on your way home with your purchase,” 
was the reply. 

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Harum resumed. “It was a little 
after tea-time when I got to the house, an’ I thought 
prob’ly I’d find her in the settin’-room waitin’ fer me ; 
but she wa’n’t, an’ I went up to the bedroom to find 
tier, feelin’ a little less sure o’ things. She was settin’ 
lookin’ out o’ winder when I come in, an’ when I 
spoke to her she didn’t give me no answer except to 
say, lookin’ up at the clock, ‘What’s kept ye like this? ’ 

“‘Little matter 0’ bus’nis,’ I says, lookin’ as smilin’ 
’s I knew how, an’ holdin’ the box behind me. 

“‘What you got there?’ she says, sluin’ her head 
round to git a sight at it. 

‘“Little matter o’ bus’nis,’ I says agin, bringin’ the 
box to the front an’ feelin’ my face straighten out ’s if 
you’d run a flat-iron over it. She seen the name on 
the paper. 

“‘You ben spendin’ your time there, have ye?’ she 
says, settin’ up in her chair an’ pointin’ with her finger 
at the box. ‘T/icifs where you ben the last half-hour, 
hangin’ round with them minxes in Mis’ Shoolbred’s. 
What’s in that box?’ she says, with her face a-blazin’. 

“‘Now, Lizy,’ I says, ‘I wa’n’t there ten minutes if 
I was that, an’ I ben buyin’ you a bun nit.’ 

“‘ You—ben—buyin’—me—a—bunnit V she says, stif’- 
nin’ up stiffer ’n a stake. 

“‘Yes,’ I says, ‘I heard you say somethin’ ’bout a 
spring bunnit, an’ I thought, seeiif how economicle 








“An’ flung it slap in my face 


99 









DAVID HARUM 


349 


you was, that I'd buy you a nicer one ’n mebbe you’d 
feel like yourself. I thought it would please ye,’ I 
says, tryin’ to rub her the right way. 

“‘Let me see it,’ she says, in a voice dryer ’n a lime- 
burner’s hat, pressin’ her lips together an’ reachin’ out 
fer the box. Wa’al, sir, she snapped the string with a 
jerk an’ sent the cover skimmin’ across the room, an’ 
then, as she hauled the parcel out of the box, she got 
up onto her feet. Then she tore the paper off on’t an’ 
looked at it a minute, an’ then took it ’tween her 
thumb an’ finger, like you hold up a dead rat by the 
tail, an’ held it off at the end of her reach, an’ looked 
it all over, with her face gettin’ even redder if it could. 
Finely she says, in a voice ’tween a whisper ’n’ a 
choke : 

“‘What’d you pay fer the thing?’ 

“‘Fifteen dollars,’ I says. 

“‘Fifteen dollars V she says. 

“‘Yes,’ I says, ‘don’t ye like it?’ 

“Wa’al,” said David, “she never said a word. She 
drawed in her arm an’ took holt of the bunnit with her 
left hand, an’ fust she pulled off one thing an’ dropped 
it on the floor, fur off as she c’d reach, an’ then another, 
an’ then another, an’ then, by gum ! she went at it with 
both hands jest as fast as she could work ’em, an’ in 
less time ’n I’m tellin’ it to ye she picked the thing 
cleaner ’n any chicken you ever see, an’ when she got 
down to the carkis she squeezed it up between her two 
hands, give it a wring an’ a twist like it was a wet dish- 
towel, an’ flung it slap in my face. Then she made a 
half-turn, throwing back her head an’ grabbin’ into her 
hair, an’ give the awfulest screecliin’ laugh—one 
screech after another that ye c’d ’a’ heard a mile—an’ 


3 5° 


DAVID HARUM 


then throwed herself face down on the bed, screamin’ 
an’ kickin’. Wa’al, sir, if I wa’n’t at my wits’ end, yon 
c’n have my watch an’ chain. 

“She wouldn’t let me touch her no way, but, as luck 
had it, it was one o’ the times when we had a hired 
girl, an’ bearin’ the noise she come gallopin’ up the 
stairs. She wa’n’t a young girl, an’ she had a face 
humbly ’nough to keep her awake nights, but she had 
some sense, an ’— 1 You’d bether run fer the docther,’ 
she says, when she see the state my wife was in. You 
better believe I done the heat of my life,” said David, 
“an’ more luck, the doctor was home an’ jes’ finishin’ 
his tea. His house an’ office wa’n’t but two three 
blocks off, an’ in about a few minutes me an’ him an’ 
his bag was leggin’ it fer my house, though I noticed 
he didn’t seem to be ’n as much of a twitter’s I was. 
He ast me more or less questions, an’ jest as we got to 
the house he says : 

“‘Idas your wife had anythin’ to ’larm or shock her 
this evenin’ ? ’ 

“‘Nothin’’t I know on,’ I says, ‘’cept I bought her a 
new bunnit that didn’t seem to come quite up to her 
idees.’ At that,” remarked Mr. Harum, “he give me a 
funny look, an’ we went in an’ upstairs. 

“The hired girl,” he proceeded, “had got her quieted 
down some, but when we went in she looked up, an’ 
seein’ me, set up another screech, an’ he told me to go 
downstairs an’ he’d come down putty soon, an’ after a 
while he did. 

“‘Wa’al?’ I says. 

“‘She’s quiet fer the present,’ he says, takin’ a pad o’ 
paper out o’ His pocket, an’ writin’ on it. 

“‘Do you know Mis’ Jones, your next-door neigh - 




DAVID HARUM 


35 1 

bor ? ’ he says. I allowed ’t I had a speakin’ acquain¬ 
tance with her. 

“‘Wa’al,’ he says, ‘ fust, you step in an’ tell her I’m 
here an’ want to see her, and ast her if she won’t come 
right along; an’ then you go down to my office an’ 
have these things sent up, an’ then,’ he says, ‘you go 
down-town an’ send this’—handin’ me a note that he’d 
wrote an’ put in an envelope—‘up to the hospital— 
better send it up with a hack, or, better yet, go your¬ 
self,’ he says, ‘an’ hurry. You can’t be no use here,’ 
he says. ‘I’ll stay, but I want a nurse here in an hour, 
an’ less if possible.’ I was putty well scared,” said 
David, “by all that, an’ I says, ‘Lord,’ I says, ‘is she as 
bad off as that? What is it ails her ? ’ 

“‘Don’t you know?’ says the doc, givin’ me a queer 
look. 

“‘No,’ I says, ‘she hain’t ben fust-rate fer a spell 
back, but I couldn’t git nothin’ out of her what was 
the matter, an’ don’t know what pertic’ler thing ails 
her now, unless it’s that dum’d bunnit,’ I says. 

“At that the doctor laughed a little, kind as if he 
couldn’t help it. 

“‘I don’t think that was hully to blame,’ he says; 
‘may have hurried matters up a little—somethin’ that 
was liable to happen any time in the next two months.’ 

“‘You don’t mean it?’ I says. 

“‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Now you git out as fast as you can. 
Wait a minute,’ he says. ‘How old is your wife?’ 

“‘F’m what she told me ’fore we was married,’ I says, 
‘she’s thirty-one.’ 

“‘Oh!’ he says, raisin’ his eyebrows. ‘All right; 
hurry up, now.’ 

“I dusted around putty lively, an’ inside of an hour 
47 


35 2 


DAVID HARUM 


was back with the nurse, an’ jest after we got inside 
the door—” David paused thoughtfully for a moment 
and then, lowering his tone a little, “jest as we got 
inside the front door, a door upstairs opened an’ I heard 
a little ‘Waa! waa ! ’ like it was the leetlist kind of a 
new lamb—an’ I tell you,” said David, with a little 
quaver in his voice, and looking straight over the off 
horse’s ears, “nothin’ ’t I ever heard before nor since 
ever fetched me, right where I lived , as that did. The 
nurse she made a dive fer the stairs, wavin’ me back 
with her hand, an’ I—wa’al—I went into the settin’- 
room, an’ —wa’al —ne’ mind. 

“I dunno how long I set there list’nin’ to ’em movin’ 
round overhead, an’ wonderin’ what was goin’ on$ but 
finely I heard a step on the stair an’ I went out into 
the entry, an’ it was Mis’ Jones. ‘ How be they ? ’ I says. 

“‘We don’t quite know yet,’ she says. ‘The little 
boy is a nice formed little feller,’ she says, ‘an’ them 
childern very often grow up, but he is very little ,’ she 
says. 

“‘An’ how ’bout my wife? ’ I says. 

“‘Wa’al,’ she says, ‘we don’t know jes’ yet, but she 
is quiet now, an’ we’ll hope fer the best. If you want 
me,’ she says, ‘I’ll come any time, night or day, but I 
must go now. The doctor will stay all night, an’ the 
nurse will stay till you c’n git some one to take her 
place,’ an’ she went home, an’,” declared David, “you’ve 
hearn tell of the ‘salt of the earth,’ an’ if that woman 
wa’n’t more on’t than a boss c’n draw downhill, the’ 
ain’t no such thing.” 

“Did they live?” asked John after a brief silence, 
conscious of the blunt ness of his question, but curious 
as to the sequel. 


DAVID HARUM 


353 

“The child did,” replied David; “not to grow up, 
but till he was ’twixt six an’ seven ; but my wife never 
left her bed, though she lived three four weeks. She 
never seemed to take no int’rist in the little feller, nor 
nothin’ else much ; but one day—it was Sunday, long to 
l he last—she seemed a lit tle more chipper ’n usual. I 
was settin’ with her, an’ I said to her how much better 
she seemed to be, tryin’ to chirk her up. 

“‘No,’ she says, ‘I ain’t goin’ to live.’ 

“‘Don’t ye say that,’ I says. 

“‘No,’ she says, ‘I ain’t, an’ I don’t care.’ 

“I didn’t know jest what to say, an’ she spoke agin : 

“‘I want to tell you, Dave,’ she says, ‘that you’ve 
ben good an’ kind to me.’ 

“‘I’ve tried to,’ I says, ‘an’ Lizy,’ I says, ‘I’ll never 
fergive myself about that bunnit, long’s I live.’ 

“‘That hadn’t really nothin’ to do with it,’ she says, 
‘an’ you meant all right, though,’ she says, almost in a 
whisper, an’ the’ came across her face not a smile ex- 
ac’ly, but somethin’ like a little riffle on a piece o’ still 
water, ‘that bunnit was enough to kill ’most anybody.’ ?? 


CHAPTER XL 



John leaned out of the buggy and looked back along 
the road, as if deeply interested in observing something 
which had attracted his attention, and David’s face 
worked oddly for a moment. 

Turning south in the direction of 
the village, they began the descent of 
a steep hill, and Mr. Ha- 
rum, careful of 
loose stones, 
gave all his 
attention to 
his driving. 
Our friend, re¬ 
specting his 
vigilance, for¬ 
bore to say 
anything which might distract his attention until they 
reached level ground, and then, “You never married 
again?” he queried. 

“No,” was the reply. “My matrymonial experience 
was 1 brief an’ to the p’int,’ as the sayin’ is.” 

“And yet,” urged John, “you were a young man, and 
I should have supposed—” 

“Wa’al,” said David, breaking in and emitting his 
chuckling laugh, “I allow ’t mebbe I sometimes thought 
on’t, an’ once, about ten year after what I ben tell in’ 
ye, I putty much made up my mind to try another 
hitch-up. The’ was a woman that I seen quite a good 
deal of, an’ liked putty well, an’ I had some grounds 




DAVID HARUM 


355 


fer thinkin’ ’t slie wouldn’t show me the door if I was 
to ask her. In fact, I made up my mind I would take 
the chances, an’ one night I put on my best bib an’ 
tucker an’ started fer her house. I had to go ’cross the 
town to where she lived, and the farther I walked the 
fiercer I got—havin’ made up my mind—so’t putty 
soon I was travelin’ ’s if I was ’fraid some other feller’d 
git there ’head o’ me. Wa’al, it was Sat’day night, an’ 
the stores was all open, an’ the streets was full o’ people, 
an’ I had to pull up in the crowd a little, an’ I don’t 
know how it happened in pertie’ler, but fust thing I 
knew I run slap into a woman with a ban’box, an’ 
when I looked round, there was a mil’nery store in full 
blast an’ winders full o’ bunnits. Wa’al, sir, do you 
know what I done? Ye don’t. Wa’al, the’was a hoss- 
car passin’ that run three mile out in the country in a 
different direction f’m where I started fer, an’ I up an’ 
got onto that car, an’ rode the length o’ that road, an’ 
got off an’ walked back —an’ I never went near her house 
f’m that day to this, an’ that,” said David, “was the 
nearest I ever come to havin’ another pardner to my 
joys an’ sorro’s.” 

“That was pretty near, though,” said John, laugh¬ 
ing. 

“W a’al,” said David, “mebbe Prov’dence might ’a’ 
had some other plan fer stoppin’ me ’fore I smashed 
the hull rig, if I hadn’t run into the mil’nery shop, but 
as it was, that fetched me to a standstill, an’ I never 
started to run agin.” 

They drove on for a few minutes in silence, which 
John broke at last by saying, “I have been wondering 
how you got on after your wife died and left you with 
a little child.” 


DAVID HARUM 


3 5 6 

“That was where Mis’ Jones come in/’ said David. 
“Of course I got the best nurse I could, an’ Mis’ Jones’d 
run in two three times ev’ry day an’ see’t things was 
goin’ on as right’s they could; but it come on that I 
had to be away f’m home a good deal, an’ finely, come 
fall, I got the Joneses to move into a bigger house, 
where I could have a room, an’ fixed it up with Mis’ 
Jones to take charge o’ the little feller right along. 
She hadn’t but one child, a girl of about thirteen, an’ 
had lost two little ones, an’ so between havin’ took to 
my little mite of a thing f’m the fust, an’ my makin’ it 
wuth her while, she was willin’, an’ we went on that 
way till—the’ wa’n’t no further occasion fur’s he was 
concerned, though I lived with them a spell longer 
when I was at home, which wa’n’t very often, an’ after 
he died I was gone fer a good while. But before that 
time, when I was at home, I had him with me all the 
time I could manage. With good care he’d growed up 
nice an’ bright, an’ as big as the average, an’ smarter ’n 
a steel trap. He liked bein’ with me better ’n anybody 
else, and when I c’d manage to have him T couldn’t 
bear to have him out o’ my sight. Wa’al, as I told 
you, he got to be ’most seven year old. I’d had to go 
out to Chicago, an’ one day I got a telegraph say in’ he 
was putty sick—an’ I took the fust train East. It was 
’long in March, an’ we had a breakdown, an’ run into 
an awful snow-storm, an’ one thing another, an’ I lost 
twelve or fifteen hours. It seemed to me that them two 
days was longer ’n my hull life, but I finely did git home 
about nine o’clock in the mornin’. When I got to the 
house Mis’ Jones was on the lookout fer me, an’ the 
door opened as I run up the stoop, an’ I see by her face 
that I was too late. ‘Oh, David, David!’ she says 


DAVID HARUM 


357 

(she’d never called me David before), puttin' her 
hands on my shoulders. 

‘“When? 7 I says. 

‘“’Bout midnight, 7 she says. 

“‘Did he suffer much? 7 I says. 

‘“No/ she says, ‘I don’t think so; but he was out of 
his head most of the time after the fust day, an 7 1 guess 
all the time the last twenty-four hours. 7 

“‘Do you think he’d ’a 7 knowed me? 7 I says. ‘Did 
he say anythin’ ? 7 an 7 at that,” said David, “she looked 
at me. She wa’n’t cryin 7 when I come in, though she 
had ben; but at that her face all broke up. ‘I don’t 
know/ she says. ‘He kept sayin’ things, an 7 ’bout all 
we could understand was “Daddy, daddy,” 7 an 7 then 
she thro wed her apern over her face, an 7 —” 

David tipped his hat a little farther over his eyes, 
though, like many if not most “horsey ” men, he usually 
wore it rather far down, and leaning over, twirled the 
whip in the socket between his two fingers and thumb. 
John studied the stitched ornamentation of the dash¬ 
board until the reins were pushed into his hands. But 
it was not for long. David straightened himself, and, 
without turning his head, resumed them as if that were 
a matter of course. 

“Day after the fun’ral,” he went on, “I says to Mis’ 
Jones, ‘I’m goin 7 back out West/ I says, ‘an 7 1 can’t say 
how long I shall be gone—long enough, anyway/ I says, 
‘to git it into my head that when I come back the 7 won’t 
be no little feller to jump up an 7 round my neck when 
I come into the house ; but, long or short, I’ll come back 
some time, an 7 meanwhile, as fur’s things between you 
an 7 me air, they’re to go on jes’ the same, an 7 more’n 
that, do you think you’ll remember him some? 7 I says. 


DAVID HARUM 



“‘ As long as I live/ she says, ‘jes’ like my own.’ 

“‘Wa’al,’ I says, ‘long’s you remember him, he’ll be, 
in a way, livin’ to ye, an’ as long’s that I allow to pay 
fer his keep an’ tendin’ jes’ the same as I have, cm’,’ I 
says, ‘if you don’t let me you ain’t no friend o’ mine, 
an’ you ben a good one.’ Wa’al, she squimmidged some, 
but I wouldn’t let her say ‘No.’ ‘I’ve ’ranged it all 
with my pardner an’ other ways,’ I says, ‘an' more’n that, 
if you git into any kind of a scrape an’ I don’t happen 
to be got at, you go to him an’ git what you want.’ ” 

“I hope she lived and prospered,” said John fervently. 

“She lived twenty year,” said David, “an’ I wish she 
was livin’ now. I never drawed a check on her account 
without feelin’ ’t I was doin’ somethin’ for my little boy. 

“The’s a good many diff rent sorts an’ kinds o’ sorro’,” 
he said after a moment, “that’s in some ways kind o’ 
kin to each other, but I guess losin’ a child’s a specie 
by itself. Of course I passed the achin’, smartin’ point 
years ago, but it’s somethin’ you can’t fergit—that is, 
you can’t help feelin’ about it, because it ain’t only 
what the child was to you, but what you keep tliinkin’ 
he’d ’a’ ben growin’ more an’ more to be to you. When 
I lost my little boy I didn’t only lose him as he was, 
but I ben losin’ him over an’ agin all these years. 
What he’d ’a’ ben when he was so old ; an’ what when 
he’d got to be a big boy • an’ what he'd ’a’ ben when he 
went mebbe to collige; an’ what he’d ’a’ ben after¬ 
ward, an’ up to now. Of course the times when a man 
stuffs his face down into the pillers nights passes, after 
a while ; but while the’s some sorro’s that the hap¬ 
penin’ o’ things helps ye to fergit, 1 guess the’s some 
that the happenin’ o’ things keeps ye rememberin’, an’ 
losin’ a child’s one on ’em.” 


CHAPTER XLI 


It was the latter part of John’s fifth winter in Home- 
ville. The business of the office had largely increased. 
The new manufactories which had been established 
did their banking with Mr. Harum, and the older con¬ 
cerns, including nearly all the merchants in the vil¬ 
lage, had transferred their accounts from Syrchester 
banks to David’s. The callow Hopkins had fledged 
and developed into a competent all-round man, able 
to do anything in the office, and there was a new “skee- 
zicks ” discharging Peleg’s former functions. Consider¬ 
able impetus had been given to the business of the 
town by the new road whose rails had been laid the 
previous summer. There had been a strong and acri¬ 
monious controversy over the route which the road 
should take into and through the village. There was 
the party of the “nabobs” (as they were characterized 
by Mr. Harum) and their following, and the party of 
the “village people,” and the former had carried their 
point; but now the road was an accomplished fact, and 
most of the bitterness which had been engendered had 
died away. Yet the struggle was still matter for talk. 

“Did I ever tell you,” said David, as he and his 
cashier were sitting in the rear room of the bank, “how 
Lawyer Staples come to switch round in that there 
railroad jangle last spring?” 

“I remember,” said John, “that you told me he had 
deserted his party, and you laughed a little at the time, 
but you did not tell me how it came about.” 

“I kind o’ thought I told ye,” said David. 

48 


DAVID HAKUM 



“No,” said John, “I am quite sure you did not. 1 ’ 

“Wa’al,” said Mr. Harum, “the’ was, as you know, 
the Tenaker-Rogers crowd wantin’ one thing, an’ the 
Purse-Babbit lot bound to have the other, an’ run the 
road under the other fellers’ noses. Staples was workin’ 
tooth an’ nail fer the Purse crowd, an’ bein’ a good deal 
of a politician, he was helpin’ ’em a good deal. In 
fact, he was about their best card. I wa’n’t takin’ 
much hand in the matter either way, though my feelin’s 
was with the Tenaker party. I knowed ’twould come to 
a point where some money’d prob’ly have to be used, 
an’ I made up my mind I wouldn’t do much drivin’ 
myself unless I had to, an’ not then till the last quarter 
of the heat. Wa’al, it got to lookin’ like a putty even 
thing. What little show I had made was if anythin’ 
on the Purse side. One day Tenaker come in to see me 
an’ wanted to know flat-footed which side the fence I 
was on. ‘Wa’al,’ I says, ‘I’ve ben settin’ up fer shapes 
to be kind o’ on the fence, but I don’t mind sayin’, 
betwixt you an’ me, that the bulk o’ my heft is a-saggin’ 
your way ; but I hain’t took no active part, an’ Purse an’ 
them thinks I’m goin’ to be on their side when it comes 
to a pinch.’ 

“‘Wa’al,’ he says, ‘it’s goin’ to be a putty close thing, 
an’ we’re goin’ to need all the help we c’n git.’ 

“‘Wa’al,’ I says, ‘I guess that’s so, but fer the pres¬ 
ent I reckon I c’n do ye more good by keepin’ in the 


shade. Are you folks prepared to spend a little 
money*?’ 1 says. 

“‘Yes,’ he says, ‘if it comes to that.’ 

“‘Wa’al,’ I says, ‘it putty most gen’ally does come to 
that, don’t it! Now, the’s one feller that’s doin’ ye 
more harm than some others.’ 


DAVID HA11UM 



a A T ou mean Stabiles ?’ he says. 

“ ‘ Yes,’ I says,‘1 mean Staples. He don’t really care 
a hill o’ white beans which way the road comes in, but 
he thinks he’s on the pop’lar side. Now,’ I says, ‘I 
don’t know as it’ll be nec’sary to use money with him, 
an’ I don’t say ’t you could, anyway, but mebbe his 





yawp c’n be stopped. I’ll 
have a quiet word with 
him,’ I says, ‘an’ see you 
agin.’ So,” continued Mr. Harum, “the next night the’ 
was quite a lot of ’em in the bar of the new hotel, an’ 
Staples was haranguin’ away the best he knowed how, 
an’ bime-by I nodded him off to one side, an’ we went 
across the hall into the settin’-room. 

“‘I see you feel putty strong ’bout this bus’nis,’ I 


says. 

“‘Yes, sir, it’s a matter of princ’ple with me,’ he says, 
knockin’ his fist down onto the table. 

“‘How does the outcome on’t look to ye?’ Isays. 
‘Goin’ to be a putty close race, ain’t it?’ 






















DAVID HARUM 


3 62 

“‘Wa’al,’ he says, ‘’tween you an’ me, I reckon it 
is.’ 

“‘That’s the way it looks to me,’ I says, ‘an’ more’n 
that, the other fellers are ready to spend some money 
at a pinch.’ 

“‘They be, be they?’ he says. 

“‘Yes, sir,’ I says, ‘an’ we’ve got to meet ’em half-way. 
Now,’ I says, takin’ a paper out o’ my pocket, ‘what I 
wanted to say to you is this: You ben rather more 
prom’nent in this matter than ’most anybody—fur’s 
talkin’ goes—but I’m consid’ably int’risted. The’s got 
to be some money raised, an’ I’m ready,’ I says, ‘to put 
down as much as you be up to a couple o’ hunderd, an’ 
I’ll take the paper round to the rest; but,’ I says, un¬ 
foldin’ it, ‘I think you’d ought to head the list, an’ I’ll 
come next.’ Wa’al,” said David, with a chuckle and a 
shake of the head, “you’d ought to have seen his jaw 
go down. He wriggled round in his chair, an’ looked 
ten different ways fer Sunday. 

“‘What do you say?’ I says, lookin’ square at him, 
‘’ll you make it a couple o’ hunderd?’ 

“‘Wa’al,’ he says, ‘I guess I couldn’t go’sfur’s that, 
an’ I wouldn’t like to head the list anyway.’ 

“‘All right,’ I says, ‘I’ll head it. Will you say one- 
fifty ? ’ 

“‘No,’ he says, pullin’ his whiskers, ‘I guess not.’ 

“‘A hunderd?’ I says, an’ he shook his head. 

“‘Fifty,’ I says, ‘an’ I’ll go a hunderd,’ an’ at that he 
got out his hank’chif an’ blowed his nose, an’ took his 
time to it. ‘Wa’al,’ I says, ‘what do ye say?’ 

“‘Wa’al,’ he says, ‘I ain’t quite prepared to give ye ’n 
answer to-night. Fact on’t is,’ he says, ‘it don’t make 
a cent’s wuth o’ diff’rence to me person’ly which way 


DAVID HARUM 363 

I he dum’d road conies in, an’ I don’t jes’ this minute 
see why I should spend any money in it.’ 

“‘ There’s the princ’ple o’ the thing,’ I says. 

“‘Yes,’ he says, gettin’ out of his chair, ‘of course, 
there’s the princ’ple of the thing, an’—wa’al, I’ll think 
it over an’ see you agin,’ he says, lookin’ at his watch. 
‘ I got to go now.’ 

“Wa’al, the next night,” proceeded Mr. Harum, “I 
went down to the hotel agin, an’ the’ was about the 
same crowd, but no Staples. The’ wa’n’t much goin’ 
on, an’ Purse, in pertic’ler, was lookin’ putty down in 
the mouth. ‘Where’s Staples'?’ I says. 

“‘Wa’al,’ says Purse, ‘he said mebbe he’d come to¬ 
night, an’ mebbe he couldn’t. Said it wouldn’t make 
much diff’rence $ an’ anyhow he was goin’ out o’ town 
up to Syrchester fer a few days. I don’t know what’s 
come over the feller,’ says Purse. ‘I told him the time 
was gittin’ short an’ we’d have to git in our best licks, 
an’ he said he guessed he’d done about all ’t he could, 
an’ in fact,’ says Purse, ‘lie seemed to ’a’ lost int’rist in 
the hull thing.’ ” 

“What did you say?” John asked. 

“Wa’al,” said David, with a grin, “Purse went on to 
allow ’t he guessed somebody’s pocket-book had ben 
talkin’, but I didn’t say much of anythin’, an’ putty 
soon come away. Two three days after,” he continued, 
“I see Tenaker agin. ‘I hear Staples has gone out o’ 
town,’ he says, ‘an’ I hear, too,’ he says, ‘that lie’s kind 
o’ soured on the hull thing—didn’t care much how it 
did come out.’ 

“‘Wa’al,’ I says, ‘when he conies back you c’n use 
your own judgment about havin’ a little interview 
with him. Mebbe somethin’ ’s made him think the’s 


DAVID HARUM 


3 6 4 

two sides to this thing. But anyway/ I says, ‘I guess 
he won’t do no more hollerin’.’ 

“‘How’s that?’ says Tenaker. 

“‘Wa’al,’ I says, ‘1 guess I’ll have to tell ye a little 
story. Mebbe you’ve heard it before, but it seems to 
be to the point. Once on a time,’ I says, ‘the’ was a 
big church meetin’ that had lasted three days, an’ the 
last evenin’ the’ was consid’able excitement. The 
prayin’ an’ singin’ had warmed most on ’em up putty 
well, an’ one o’ the most movin’ of the speakers was 
tellin’ ’em what was what. The’ was a big crowd, an’ 
while most on ’em come to be edified, the' was quite a 
lot in the back part of the place that was ready fer 
anythin’. Wa’al, it happened that standin’ mixed up 
iu that lot was a feller named —we’ll call him Smith, to 
be sure of him—an’ Smith was jes’ runnin’ over with 
power, an’ ev’ry little while when somethin’ the speaker 
said touched him on the funny-bone he’d out with an 
“A—men! Yes , Lord!” in a voice like a fact’ry 
whistle. Wa’al, after a little the’ was some snickerin’ 
an’ gigglin’ an’ scroughin’ an’ hustlin’ in the back part, 
an’ even some of the serioustest up in front would kind 
o’ smile, an’ the moderator leaned over an’ says to one 
of the bretherin on the platform, “Brother Jones,” he 
says, “can’t you git down to the back of the hall an’ say 
somethin’ to quiet Brother Smith? Smith’s a good 
man, an’ a pious man,” the moderator says, “but lie’s 
very excitable, an’ I’m ’fraid he’ll git the boys to goin’ 
back there an’ disturb the meetin’.” So Jones he worked 
his way back to where Smith was, an’ the moderator 
watched him go up to Smith and jes’ speak to him ’bout 
ten seconds ; an’ after that Smith never peeped once. 
After the meetin’ was over the moderator says to 


DAVID HARUM 


3 6 5 

Jones, “Brother Jones,” he says, “what did you say to 
Brother Smith to-night that shut him up so quick?” 
“I ast him fer a dollar for For’n Missions,” says Brother 
Jones, an’, wa’al,’ I says to Tenaker, 1 that’s what I 
done to Staples.’ ” 

“Did Mr. Tenaker see the point?” asked John, 
laughing. 

“He laughed a little,” said David, “but didn’t quite 
ketch on till I told him about the subscription paper, 
an’ then he like to split.” 

“Suppose Staples had taken you up,” suggested John. 

“Wa’al,” said David, “I didn’t think I was takin’ 
many chances. If, in the fust place, I hadn’t knowed 
Staples as well’s I did, the Smith fam’ly, so fur’s my 
experience goes, has got more members ’n any other 
fam’ly on top of the earth.” At this point a boy 
brought in a telegram. David opened it, gave a side 
glance at his companion, and, taking out his pocket- 
book, put the dispatch therein. 



































CHAPTER XLII 


The next morning David called John into the rear 
room. “Busy?” he asked. 

“No,” said John. “Nothing that can’t wait.” 

“Set down,” said Mr. Harum, drawing a chair to the 
fire. He looked up with his characteristic grin. “Ever 
own a hog?” he said. 

“No,” said John, smiling. 

“Ever feel like ownin’ one?” 

“I don’t remember ever having any cravings in that 
direction.” 

“Like pork?” asked Mr. Harum. 

“In moderation,” was the reply. David produced 
from his pocketbook the dispatch receHed the day 
before and handed it to the young man at his side. 
“Read that,” he said. 

John looked at it and handed it back. 

“It doesn’t convey any idea to my mind,” he said. 

“What?” said David, “you don’t know what ‘Bangs 
Galilee’ means? nor who ‘Raisin’ is?” 

“You’ll have to ask me an easier one,” said John, 
smiling. 

David sat for a moment in silence, and then, “How 
much money have you got?” he asked. 

“Well,” was the reply, “with what I had and wliat I 
have saved since I came I could get together about five 
thousand dollars, I think.” 

“Is it where you c’n put your hands on’t?” 

John took some slips of paper from his pocketbook 
and handed them to David. 


DAVID HARUM 


3 6 7 


a H’m, h’m,” said the latter. “Wa’al, I owe ye quite 
a little bunch o’ money, don’t I? Forty-five hunderd ! 
Wa’al! Couldn’t you ’a’ done better ’n to keep this 
here at four per cent. ? ” 

“Well,” said John, “perhaps so, and perhaps not. I 
preferred to do this at all events.” 

“Thought the old man was safe anyway, didn’t ye?” 
said David in a tone which showed that he was highly 
pleased. 

“Yes,” said John. 

“Is this all?” asked David. 

“There is some interest on those certificates, and I 
have some balance in my account,” was the reply ; “and 
then, you know, I have some very valuable securities 
—a beautiful line of mining stocks, and that promising 
Pennsylvania property.” 

At the mention of the last-named asset David looked 
at him for an instant as if about to speak, but if so he 
changed his mind. He sat for a moment fingering the 
yellow paper which carried the mystic words. Pres¬ 
ently he said, opening the message out, “That’s from an 
old friend of mine out to Chicago. He come 
from this part of the country, an’ we was 
young fellers together thirty years ago. I’ve 
had a good many deals with him and through 
him, an’ he never give me a wrong steer, 
fur’s I know. That is, I never done as he 
told me without coinin’ out all right, though 
he’s give me a good many pointers 
I never did nothin’ about. ’Tain’t 
nec’sary to name no names, but 
1 Bangs Galilee ’ means 1 buy pork,’ 
an’ as I’ve ben watchin’ the market 
49 




0 

Q: 


*1 


<>. f '7 







DAVID HARUM 


368 

fer quite a spell myself, an’ standard pork’s a good deal 
lower ’11 it costs to pack it, I’ve made up my mind to buy 
a few thousan’ barrels fer fam’ly use. It’s a, handy thing 
to have in the house,” declared Mr. Hamm, “an’ 1 
thought mebbe it wouldn’t be a bad thing fer you to 
have a little. It looks cheap to me,” he added, “an’ 
mebbe bime-by what you don’t eat you c’n sell.” 

“Well,” said John, laughing, “you see me at table 
every day and know what my appetite is like. How 
much pork do you think I could take care of?” 

“Wa’al, at the present price,” said David, “I think 
about four thousan’ barrels would give ye enough to 
eat fer a spell, an’ mebbe leave ye a few barrels to dis¬ 
pose of if you should happen to strike a feller later on 
that wanted it wuss ’n you did.” 

John opened his eyes a little. “I should only have 
a margin of a dollar and a quarter,” he said. 

“Wa’al, I’ve got a notion that that’ll carry ye,” said 
David. “It may go lower ’11 what it is now. I never 
bought anythin’ yet that didn’t drop some, an’ I guess 
nobody but a fool ever did buy at the bottom more’11 
once; but I’ve had an idee for some time that it was 
about bottom, an’ this here telegraph wouldn’t ’a’ ben 
sent if the feller that sent it didn’t think so too, an’ 
I’ve had some other cor’spondenee with him.” Mr. 
Harum paused and laughed a little. 

“I was jest thinkin’,” he continued, “of what the 
Irishman said about Stofford. Never ben there, have 
ye? Wa’al, it’s a place eight nine mile f’111 here, an’ 
the hills round are so steep that when you’re goin’ up 
you c’n look right back under the buggy by jes’ leanin’ 
over the edge of the dash. I was drivin’ round there 
once, an’ I met an Irishman with a big drove o’ hogs. 


DAVID HARUM 369 

“‘Hello, Pat!’ I says, ‘wliere’d all them hogs come 
from 1 ’ 

“‘Stoffordhe says. 

“‘Wa’al,’ I says, ‘I wouldn’t ’a’ thought the’ was so 
many hogs in Stofford.’ 

“‘Oh, be gobs!’ he says, Sure they’re all hogs in 
Stofford ’ 5 an’,” declared David, u tlie bears ben sellin’ 
lhat pork up in Chicago as if the hull everlastin’ West 
was all hogs.” 

“It’s very tempting,” said John thoughtfully. 

“Wa’al,” said David, “I don’t want to tempt ye ex- 
ac’ly, an’ certain I don’t want to urge ye. The’ ain’t 
no sure things but death an’ taxes, as the sayin’ is, but 
buyin’ pork at these prices is buyin’ somethin’ that’s 
got value, an’ you can’t wipe it out. In other words, 
it’s buyin’ a warranted article at a price consid’ably 
lower ’n it c’11 be produced for, an’ though it may go 
lower, if a man c’n stick, it’s bound to level up in the 
long run.” 

Our friend sat for some minutes apparently looking 
into the tire, but he was not conscious of seeing any¬ 
thing at all. Finally he rose, went over to Mr. Harum’s 
desk, figured the interest 011 the certificates up to the 
first of January, indorsed them, and filling up a check 
for the balance of the amount in question, handed the 
cheek and certificate to David. 

“Think you’ll go it, eh?” said the latter. 

“Yes,” said John ; “but if I take the quantity you 
suggest I shall have nothing to remargin the trade in 
case the market goes below a certain point.” 

“I’ve thought of that,” replied David, “an’ was goin’ 
to say to you that I’d carry the trade down as fur as your 
money would go, in case more margins had to be called.” 


37° 


DAVID HARUM 


“Very well/ 7 said John. “And will you look after 
the whole matter for me? 77 

“All right/ 7 said David. 

John thanked him and returned to the front room. 

There were times in the months which followed when 
our friend had reason to wish that all swine had perished 
with those whom Shylock said “your prophet the Naza- 
rite conjured the devil into 77 ; and the news of the 
world in general was of secondary importance compared 
with the market reports. After the purchase pork 
dropped off a little, and hung about the lower figure for 
some time. Then it began to advance by degrees until 
the quotation was a dollar above the purchase price. 

John’s impulse was to sell, but David made no sign. 
The market held firm for a while, even going a little 
higher. Then it began to drop rather more rapidly 
than it had advanced, to about what the pork had cost, 
and for a long period fluctuated only a few cents one 
way or the other. This was followed by a steady de- . 
cline to the extent of half a dollar, and, as the reports 
came, it “looked like going lower/ 7 which it did. In 
fact, there came a day when it was so “low/ 7 and so 
much more “looked like going lower 77 than ever (as 
such things usually do when the “bottom 77 is pretty 
nearly reached), that our friend had not the courage to 
examine I he market reports for the next two days, and 
simply tried to keep the subject out of his mind. On 
the morning of the third day the Syrchester paper 
was brought in about ten o’clock, as usual, and laid 
on Mr. Hamm’s desk. John shivered a little, and for 
some time refrained from looking at it. At last, more 
by impulse than intention, he went into the back room 


DAVIl) HARUM 


37 1 


and glanced at the first page without taking the paper 
in his hands. One of the press dispatches was headed : 
“Great Excitement on Chicago Board of Trade : Pork 
Market reported Cornered : Bears on the Run,” and 
more of the same sort, which struck our friend as being 


the most profitable, 
delightful literature 
come across. David 
Chester the two days 
ing the evening be¬ 
fore. Just then 
he came into 
the office, and ~ jr 
John handed 
him the paper. 

“Wa’al,” he 
said, holding it 
off at arm’s 
length, and 
then putting 
on his glasses, 

“them fellers 
that thought 
they was all 
hogs up West are havin’ a 
change of heart, are they? 
I reckoned they would ’fore 
they got through with it. 


instructive, and 
that he had ever 
had been in Syr- 


previous, return- 



W 'T' 

It’s ben ruther a long 


pull, though, eh?” he said, looking at John with a 


grin. 


“Yes,” said our friend, with a slight shrug of the 
shoulders. 

“Things looked ruther colicky the last two three 





37 2 


DAVID HARUM 


days, eli?” suggested David. “Did you think ‘the jig 
was up an’ the monkey was in the box’?” 

“Rather,” said John. “The fact is,” lie admitted, “I 
am ashamed to say that for a few days back I haven’t 
looked at a quotation. I suppose you must have car¬ 
ried me to some extent. How much was it?” 

“Wa’al,” said David, “I kept the trade margined, of 
course, an’ if we’d sold out at the bottom you’d have 
owed me somewhere along a thousan’ or fifteen hunderd ; 
but,” lie added, “it was only in the slump, an’ didn’t 
last long, an’ anyway I cal’lated to carry that pork to 
where it would ’a’ ketched fire. I wa’n’t worried none, 
an’ you didn’t let on to be, an’ so I didn’t sav anythin’.” 

“What do you think about it now?” asked John. 

“My opinion is now,” replied Mr. Hamm, “that it’s 
goin’ to putty near where it belongs, an’ mebbe higher, 
an’ them’s my advices. We can sell now at some profit, 
an’ of course the bears 'll jump on agin as it goes up, 
an’ the other fellers 'll take the profits fTm time to 
time. If I was where I could watch the market, I’d 
mebbe try to make a turn in’t ’casionallv, but I guess 
as ’tis we’d better set down an’ let her take her own 
gait. I don’t mean to try an’ git the top price—I’m 
alwus willin’ to let the other feller make a little—but 
we’ve waited fer quite a spell, an’ as it’s goin’ our way, 
we might’s well wait a little longer.” 

“All right,” said John, “and I’m very much obliged 
to you.” 

“Slio, sho ! ” said David. 

It was not until August, however, that the deal was 
finally closed out. 


CHAPTER XLIII 


r FirE summer was drawing to a close. The season, so far 
as the social part of it was concerned, had been what 
John had grown accustomed to in previous years, and 
l here were few changes in or among the people whom 
he had come to know very well, save those which a 
few years make in young people : some increase of im¬ 
portance in demeanor on the part of the young men 
whose razors were coming into requisition; and the 
changes from short to long skirts, from braids, pig-tails, 
and flowing manes to more elaborate coiffures on the 
part of the young 
women. The most 
notable event had 
been the re-open¬ 
ing of the Verjoos 
house, which had 
been closed for two 
summers, and the 
return of the family, followed by the appearance of a 
young man whom Miss Clara had met abroad, and who 
represented himself as the acknowledged fiance of that 
young woman. It need hardly be said that discussions 
of the event, and upon the appearance, manners, pros¬ 
pects, etc., of that fortunate gentleman had formed a 
very considerable part of the talk of the season among 
the summer people; and, indeed, interest in the affair 
had permeated all grades and classes of society. 

It was some six weeks after the settlement of the 
transaction in “pork” that David and John were driv- 









374 


DAVID HAHUM 


ing together in the afternoon as they had so often done 
in the last five years. They had got to that point of 
understanding where neither felt constrained to talk 
for the purpose of keeping up conversation, and often 
in their long drives there was little said by either of 
them. The young man was never what is called “a 
great talker/’ and Mr. Harum did not always “git 


goin’.” On this occa¬ 
sion they had gone 
along for some time, 
smoking in silence, each 
man absorbed in his 
thoughts. Finally Da¬ 
vid turned to his com¬ 



panion. 


“Do you know that 
Dutchman Claricy Ver- 
joos is goin’ to marry?” 
he asked. 


“Yes,” replied John, laughingj 
“I have met him a number of 


times. But he isn’t a Dutchman, 
ft What gave you that idea?” 

“ I heard it was over in Germany 
she run across him,” said David. 
“I believe that is so, but he 


isn’t a German. He is from Philadelphia, 

_i 

and is a friend of the Bradways.” 



“What kind of a feller is he? Good enough for 
her?” 

“Well,” said John, smiling, ‘‘in the sense in which 
that question is usually taken, I should say yes. He 
has good looks, good manners, a good deal of money, 1 







DAVID HARUM 


375 

am told, and it is said that Miss Clara—which is the 
main point, after all—is very much in love with him.” 

“H’m,” said David after a moment. “How do you 
git along with the Verjoos girls? AVas Claricy’s ears 
pointed all right when you seen her fust after she come 
home ? ” 

“Oh, yes ! ” replied John, smiling, “she and her sister 
were perfectly pleasant and cordial, and Miss Verjoos 
and I are on very friendly terms.” 

“I was thinkin’,” said David, “that you an’ Claricy 
might be got to likin’ each other, an’ mebbe—” 

“I don’t think there could ever have been the small¬ 
est chance of it,” declared John hastily. 

“Take the lines a minute,” said David, handing them 
to his companion after stopping the horses. “The nigh 
one’s picked up a stone, I guess,” and he got out to in¬ 
vestigate. “The river road,” he remarked as he climbed 
back into the buggy after removing the stone from the 
horse’s foot, “is about the puttiest road round here, 
but I don’t drive it oftener jest on account of them 
dum’d loose stuns.” He sucked the air through his 
pursed-up lips, producing a little squeaking sound, and 
the horses started forward. Presently he turned to 
John. 

“Did you ever think of gettin’ married?” he asked. 

“Well,” said our friend, with a little hesitation, “I 
don’t remember that I ever did, very definitely.” 

“Somebody ’t you knew ’fore you come up here?” 
said David, jumping at a conclusion. 

“Yes,” said John, smiling a little at the question. 

“Wouldn’t she have ye?” queried David, who stuck 
at no trifles when in pursuit of information. 

John laughed. “I never asked her,” he replied, in 
50 


DAVIl) HARUM 


37 6 

truth a little surprised at his own willingness to be 
questioned. 

“Did ye cal’late to when the time come right? ” pur¬ 
sued Mr. Hamm. 

Of this part of his history John had, of course, never 
spoken to David. There had been a time when, if not 
resenting the attempt upon his confidence, he would 
have made it plain that he did not wish to discuss the 
matter, and the old wound still gave him twinges. But 
he had not only come to know his questioner very well, 
but to be much attached to him. He knew, too, that 
the elder man would ask him nothing save in the way 
of kindness, for he had had a hundred proofs of that ; 
and now, so far from feeling reluctant to take his com¬ 
panion into his confidence, he rather welcomed the idea. 
He was, withal, a bit curious to ascertain the drift of 
the inquiry, knowing that David, though sometimes 
working in devious ways, rarely started without an 
intention. And so he answered the question and 
what followed as he might have told his stOrv to 
a woman. 

“An’ didn’t you never git no note, nor message, nor 
word of any kind?” asked David. 

“No.” 

“Nor hain’t ever heard a word about her fm that 
day to this?” 

“No.” 

“Nor hain’t ever tried to?” 

“No,” said John. “What would have been the use ? ” 

“Prov’dence seemed to ’ve made a putty clean sweep 
in your matters that spring, didn’t it?” 

“It seemed so to me,” said John. 

Nothing more was said for a minute or two. Mr. 


DAVID HARUM 


3/7 

Harum appeared to have abandoned lhe pursuit of I lie 
subject of his questions. At last lie said : 

“You ben here ’most five years.” 

“Very nearly,” John replied. 

“Ben putty contented, on the hull?” 

“I have grown to be,” said John. “Indeed, it’s hard 
to realize at times that I haven’t always lived in 
Homeville. I remember my former life as if it were 
something I have read in a book. There was a John 
Lenox in it, but he seems to me sometimes more like a 
character in a story than myself.” 

“An’ yet,” said David, turning toward him, “if you 
was to go back to it, this last five years’d git to be that 
way to ye a good deal quicker. Don’t ye think so?” 

“Perhaps so,” replied John. “Yes,” he added 
thoughtfully, “ it is possible.” 

“I guess on the hull, though,” remarked Mr. Harum, 
“you done better up here in the country ’n you might 
some’ers else—” 

“Oh, yes,” said John sincerely, “thanks to you, I 
have indeed, and—” 

“_an’—ne’ mind about me—you got quite a little 
bunch o’ money together now. I was thinkin’ ’t mebbe 
you might feel’t you needn’t to stay here no longer if 
you didn’t want to.” 

The young man turned to the speaker inquiringly, 
but Mr. Harum’s face was straight to the front, and 
betrayed nothing. 

“It wouldn’t be no more’n natural,” he went on, “an’ 
mebbe it would be best for ye. You’re too good a man 
to spend all your days workin’ fer Dave Harum, an’ 
I’ve had it in my mind fer some time—somethin’ like 
that pork deal—to make you a little independent in 


DAVID HARUM 


case anythin’ should happen, an’ — gen’ally. I couldn't 
give ye no money ’cause you wouldn’t ’a’ took it even 
if I’d wanted to, but now you got it, why—” 

“I feel very much as if you had given it to me,” pro¬ 
tested the young man. 

David put up his hand. “No, no,” he said, “all ’t 
I did was to propose the thing to ye, an’ to put up a 
little money fer two three days. I didn’t take no 
chances, an’ it’s all right, an’ it’s yourn, an’ it makes 
ye to a certain extent independent of Homeville.” 

“I don’t quite see it so,” said John. 

“Wa’al,” said David, turning to him, “if you’d had as 
much five years ago you wouldn’t ’a’ come here, would 
ye ? ” 

John was silent. 

“What I was leadin’ up to,” resumed Mr. Harum 
after a moment, “is this. I ben think in’ about it fer 
some time, but I haven’t wanted to speak to ye about 
it before. In fact, I might ’a’ put it off some longer if 
things wa’n’t as they are, but the fact o’ the matter is 
that I’m goin’ to take down my sign.” 

John looked at him in undisguised amazement, not 
unmixed with consternation. 

“Yes,” said David, obviously avoiding the other’s 
eye, “‘David Harum, Banker,’ is goin’ to come down. 
I’m gettin’ to be an old man,” he went on, “an’ what 
with some investments I’ve got, an’ a boss trade once in 
a while, I guess I c’n manage to keep the fire goin’ in 
the kitchin stove fer Polly an’ me, an’ the’ ain’t no 
reason why I sli’d keep my sign up much of any longer. 
Of course,” he said, “if I was to go on as I be now I’d 
want ye to stay jest as you are ; but, as I was sayin’, 
you’re to a consid’able extent independent. You hain’t 


DAVID HARUM 


379 

no speciul ties to keep ye, an 7 you ought anyway, as I 
said before, to be doin’ better for yourself than jes 7 
drawin 7 pay in a country bank. 77 


One of the most impressive morals drawn from the 
fairy tales of our childhood, and in¬ 
deed from the literature and ex- / 



attended by the most unwelcome results. There had 
been a great many times when to our friend the possi¬ 
bility of being able to bid farewell to Homeville had 
seemed the most desirable of things, but confronted 
with the idea as a reality—for what other construction 
could he put upon David’s words except that they 








DAVID HARUM 


380 

amounted practically to a dismissal, though a most kind 
one?—he found himself simply in dismay. 

“I suppose,” he said after a few moments, “that by 
‘taking down your sign’ you mean going out of busi¬ 
ness—” 

“Figger o’ speech,” explained David. 

“—and your determination is not only a great sur¬ 
prise to me, but grieves me very much. I am very 
sorry to hear it—more sorry than I can tell you. As 
you remind me, if I leave Homeville I shall not go 
almost penniless as I came, but I shall leave with great 
regret, and, indeed— Ah, well—” he broke off with a 
wave of his hands. 

“What was you goin’ to say?” asked David, after a 
moment, his eyes on the horizon. 

“I can’t say very much more,” replied the young man, 
“than that I am very sorry. There have been times,” 
he added, “as you may understand, when I have been 
restless and discouraged for a while, particularly at 
first; but I can see now that, on the whole, I have been 
far from unhappy here. Your house has grown to be 
more a real home than any I have ever known, and vou 
and your sister are like my own people. What you say, 
that I ought not to look forward to spending my life 
behind the counter of a village bank on a salary, may 
be true ; but I am not, at present at least, a very ambi¬ 
tious person, nor, I am afraid, a very clever one in the 
way of getting on in the world ; and the idea of break¬ 
ing out for myself, even if that were all to be consid¬ 
ered, is not a cheerful one. I am afraid all this sounds 
rather sellisli to you, when, as I can see, you have de¬ 
ferred your plans for my sake, and after all else that 
vou have done for me.” 

4/ 


DAVID HARUM 381 

“I guess I sha’n’t lay it up agin ye,” said David 
quietly. 

They drove along in silence for a while. 

“May I ask,” said John, at length, “when you intend 
to Hake down your sign,’ as you put it?” 

“Whenever you say the word,” declared David, with 
a chuckle and a side glance at his companion. John 
turned in bewilderment. 

“What do you mean?” he asked. 

“Wa’al,” said David, with another short laugh, “fur’s 
the sign’s concerned, I s’pose we could stick a new one 
over it, but I guess it might ’s well come down 5 but 
we’ll settle that matter later on.” 

John still looked at the speaker in utter perplexity, 
until the latter broke out into a laugh. 

“Got any idee what’s goin’ onto the new sign?” he 
asked. 

“You don’t mean—” 


“Yes, I do,” declared Mr. Harum, “an’ my notion’s 
this, an’ don’t you say aye, yes, nor 



“The new sign ’ll read ‘Harum & Comp’ny,’ or 
‘Harum & Lenox,’ jest as you elect. You c’11 put in 
what money you got an’ I’ll put in as much more, 


DAVID HARUM 


* 


382 

which ’ll make capital enough in gen’ral, an’ any extry 
money that’s needed—wa’al, up to a certain point, I 
guess I c’n manage. Now putty much all the new 
bus’nis has come in through you, an’ practically you 
got the hull thing in your hands. You’ll do the work 
about ’s you’re doin’ now, an’ you’ll draw the same 
sal’ry; an’ after that’s paid we’ll go snueks on anythin’ 
that’s left—that ?s,” added David, with a chuckle, “if 
you feel that you c’n stem’ it in Homeville.” 

“I wish you was married to one of our Homeville 
girls, though,” declared Mr. Harum later on as they 
drove homeward. 



1 











CHAPTER XLIV 


* 


•Kk 


Since the whooping-cough and measles of childhood 
the junior partner of Harum & Company had never to 
his recollection had a day’s illness in his life, and he 
fought the attack which came upon him about the first 
week in December with a sort of incredulous disgust, 
until one morning when he did not appear at breakfast. 
He spent the next week in bed, and at the end of that 
time, while he was able to be about, it was in a languid 
and spiritless fashion, and he was shaken and exas¬ 
perated by a persistent cough. The season was and 
had been unusually inclement even for that region, 
where the thermometer sometimes changes fifty de¬ 
grees in thirty-six hours ; and at the time of his release 
from his room there was a period of successive changes 
of temperature from thawing to zero and below, a char¬ 
acteristic of the winter climate of Homeville and its 
vicinity. Dr. Hayes exhibited the inevitable quinine, 
iron, and all the tonics in his pharmacopoeia, with 
cough mixtures and sundry, but in vain. Aunt Polly 
pressed bottles of sovereign decoctions and infusions 
upon him—which were received with thanks and neg¬ 
lected with the blackest ingratitude—and exhausted 
not only the markets of Homeville, but her own and 
Sairy’s culinary resources (no mean ones, by the way) 
to tempt the appetite which would not respond. One 
week followed another without any improvement in 
his condition ; and indeed as time went on he fell into 
a condition of irritable listlessness which filled his part¬ 
ner with concern. 


51 


DAVID HARUM 


3 % 

“AVhat’s the matter with him, Doc?’’ said David to 

the physician. “He don’t seem to take no more int’rist 

than a foundered hoss. Can’t ve do nothin’ for him?” 

%/ 

“Not much use dosin’ him,” replied the doctor. 
“Pull out all light, maybe, come 



off,” remarked Mr. Hamm, “an’ he coughs enough to 
tear his head off sometimes.” 

The doctor nodded. “Ought to clear out some¬ 
where,” he said. “Don’t like that cough myself.” 

“What do you mean?” asked David. 

“Ought to go ’way for a spell,” said the doctor ; “quit 
working, and get a change of climate.” 















DAVID HARUM 


3^5 


“Have you told him so?” asked Mr. Hamm. 

“Yes/’ replied tlie doctor; “said lie couldn’t get 
away.” 

“H’m’m!” said David thoughtfully, pinching his 
lower lip between his thumb and finger. 

A day or two after the foregoing interview, John 
came in and laid an open letter in front of David, who 
was at his desk, and dropped languidly into a chair 
without speaking. Mr. Harum read the letter, smiled 
a little, and turning in his chair, took off his glasses 
and looked at the young man, who was staring ab¬ 
stractedly at the floor. 

“I ben rather expectin’ you’d git somethin’ like this. 
What be you goin’ to do about it?” 

“I don’t know,” replied John. “I don’t like the idea 
of leasing the property in any case, and certainly not 
on the terms they offer; but it is lying idle, and I’m 
paying taxes on it—” 

“Wa’al, as I said, I ben expectin’ fer some time 
they’d be after ye in some shape. You got this this 
mornin’ ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“I expect you’d sell the prop’ty if you got a good 
chance, wouldn’t ye?” 

“With the utmost pleasure,” said John emphatically. 

“Wa’al, I’ve got a notion they’ll buy it of ye,” said 
David, “if it’s handled right. I wouldn’t lease it if it 
was mine an’ I wanted to sell it, an’ yet, in the long- 
run, you might git more out of it—an’ then agin you 
mightn’t,” he added. 

“I don’t know anything about it,” said John, putting 
his liandkerchiet to his mouth in a fit ol coughing. 
David looked at him with a Irown. 


DAVID HARUM 


386 

“I ben aware fer some time that the’ was a move¬ 
ment on foot in your direction,” he said. “You know 
I told ye that I’d ben int’ristid in the oil bus’nis once 
on a time; an’ I hain’t never quite lost my int’rist, 
though it hain’t ben a very active one lately, an’ some 
fellers down there hav e kep’ me posted some. The’ ’s 
ben oil found near where you’re located, an’ the pros¬ 
pectin’ points your way. The hull thing has ben kep’ 
as close as possible, an’ the holes has ben plugged, but 
the oil is there somewhere. Now it’s like this : If you 
lease on shares an’ they strike the oil on your prop’ty, 
mebbe it’ll bring you more money 5 but they might 
strike, an’ agin they mightn’t. Sometimes you git a 
payin’ well an’ a dry hole only a few hunderd feet 
apart. Nevertheless they want to drill your prop’ty. 
I know who the parties is. These fellers that wrote 
this letter are simply actin’ for ’em.” 

The speaker was interrupted by another fit of cough¬ 
ing, which left the sufferer very red in the face, and 
elicited from him the word which is always greeted 
with laughter in a theater. 

“Say,” said David, after a moment, in which he 
looked anxiously at his companion, “I don’t like that 
cough o’ yourn.” 

“I don’t thoroughly enjoy it myself,” was the re¬ 
joinder. 

“Seems to be kind o’ growin’ on ye, don’t it!” 

“I don’t know,” said John. 

“I was talkin’ with Doc Hayes about ye,” said 
David, “an’ he allowed you’d ought to have your shoes 
off an’ run loose a spell.” 

John smiled a little, but did not reply. 

“Spoke to you about it, didn’t he? ” continued David. 


DAVID HARUM 


387 


“Yes.” 

“An’ you told him you couldn’t git away?” 

“Yes.” 

“Didn’t tell him you wouldn’t go if you could, did 
ye ? ” 

“I only told him I couldn’t go,” said John. 

David sat for a moment thoughtfully tapping the 
desk with his eyeglasses, and then said with his char¬ 
acteristic chuckle : 

“I had a letter f’m Chet Timson yestid’y.” 

John looked up at him, failing to see the connection. 

“Yes,” said David. “He’s out fer a job, an’ the way 
he writes I guess the dander’s putty well out of him. 
I reckon the’ hain’t ben nothin’ much but hay in his 
manger fer quite a spell,” remarked Mr. Harum. 

“H’m !” said John, raising his brows, conscious of a 
humane but very faint interest in Mr. Timson’s affairs. 
Mr. Harum got out a cigar, and, lighting it, gave a puff 
or two, and continued with what struck the younger 
man as a perfectly irrelevant question. It really seemed 
to him as if his senior were making conversation. 

“How’s Peleg doin’ these days?” was the query. 

“Very well,” was the reply. 

“C’n do ’most anythin’ ’t’s nec’sary, can’t he?” 

A brief interruption followed upon the entrance of 
a man, who, after saying good-morning, laid a note on 
David’s desk, asking for the money on it. Mr. Harum 
handed it back, indicating John with a motion of his 
thumb. 

The latter took it, looked at the face and back, 
marked his initials on it with a pencil, and the man 
went out to the counter. 

“If you was fixed so’t you could git away fer a spell,” 


388 DAVID HARUM 

said David a moment or two after the customer’s de¬ 
parture, “where would you like to go?” 

“I have not thought about it,” said John rather list¬ 
lessly. 

“Wa’al, s’pose you think about it a little now, if you 
hain’t got no press in’ engagement. Bus’nis don’t seem 
to be very rusliin’ this mornin’.” 

“Why?” said John. 

“Because,” said David impressively, “you’re goin’ 
somewhere right off, quick’s you c’n git ready, an’ you 
may’s well be makin’ up your mind where.” 

John looked up in surprise. “I don't want to go 
away,” he said, “and if I did, how could I leave the 
office? ” 

“No,” responded Mi*. Harum, “you don’t want to 
make a move of any kind that you don’t actually have 
to, an’ that’s the reason fer makin’ one. F’m what the 
doc said, an’ fm what I c’n see, you got to git out o’ 
this dum’d climate,” waving his hand toward the win¬ 
dow, against which the sleet was beating, “fer a spell; 
an’ as fur’s the office goes, Chet Timson ’d be tickled 
to death to come on an’ help out while you’re away, 
an’ I guess ’mongst us we c’n mosey along some gait. I 
ain’t quite to the bone-yard yet myself,” he added with 
a grin. 

The younger man sat for a moment or two with brows 
contracted, and pulling thoughtfully at his mustache. 

“There is that matter,” he said, pointing to the letter 
on the desk. 

“Wa’al,” said David, “the’ ain’t no tearin’ hurry 
’bout that; an’ anyway, I was goin’ to make you a 
suggestion to put the matter into my hands to some 
extent.” 


DAVID HARUM 


3 8y 

“Will you take it?” said Jolm quickly. “That is 
exactly what I should wish in any case.” 

“If you want I should,” replied Mr. Hamm. “Would 
you want to give full power attorney, or jest have me 
say ’t I was instructed to act for ye?” 

“I think a better way would be to put the property 
iu your name altogether,” said John. “Don’t you think 
so? ” 

“Wa’al,” said David thoughtfully, after a moment, 
“I hadn’t thought of that, but mebbe I could handle 
the matter better if you was to do that. I know the 
parties, an’ if the’ was any bluffin’ to be done either 
side, mebbe it would be better if they thought I was 
playin’ my own hand.” 

At that point Peleg appeared and asked Mr. Lenox 
a question which took the latter to the teller’s counter. 
David sat for some time drumming on his desk with 
the fingers of both hands. A succession of violent 
coughs came from the front room. His mouth and 
brows contracted in a wince, and rising, he put on his 
coat and hat and went slowly out of the bank. 



CHAPTER XLV 

The Vaterland was advertised to sail at one o’clock, 
and it wanted but fifteen or twenty minutes of the 
hour. After assuring himself that his belongings were 
all together in his state-room, John made his way to 
the upper deck and, leaning against the rail, watched 
the bustle of embarkation, somewhat interested in the 
people standing about, among whom it was difficult in 
instances to distinguish the passengers from those who 
were present to say farewell. Near him at the moment 
were two people, apparently man and wife, of middle 
age and rather distinguished appearance, to whom 
presently approached, with some evidence of hurry and 
with outstretched hand, a very well dressed and pleas¬ 
ant looking man. 

“Ah, here you are, Mrs. Ruggles,” John‘heard him 
say as he shook hands. 

Then followed some commonplaces of good wishes 
and farewells, and in reply to a question which John 
did not catch, he heard the lady addressed as Mrs. 
Ruggles say, “Oh, didn’t you see her? We left her 
on the lower deck a few minutes ago. Ah, here she 
comes.” 

The man turned and advanced a step to meet the 
person in question. John’s eyes involuntarily followed 
the movement, and as he saw her approach his heart 


DAVID HARUM 


39' 


contracted sharply : it was Mary Blake. He turned 
away quickly, and as the collar of his ulster was about 
his face, for the air of the January day was very keen, 
lie thought that she had not recognized him. A moment 
later he went aft around the deck-house, and going 
forward to the smoking-room, seated himself therein, 
and took the passenger list out of his pocket. He had 
already scanned it rather cursorily, having but I lie 
smallest expectation of coming upon a familiar name, 
yet feeling sure that, had hers been there, it could not 
have escaped him. Nevertheless, he now ran his eye 
over the columns with eager scrutiny, and the hands 
which held the paper shook a little. 

There was no name in the least like Blake. II oc¬ 
curred to him that by some chance or error tiers might 
have been omitted, when his eye caught the following : 

William Buggies.New York. 

Mrs. Buggies. “ u 

Mrs. Edward Buggies .... “ u 

It was plain to him then. She was obviously traveling 
with the people whom she had just joined on deck, and 
it was equally plain that she was Mrs. Edward Buggies. 

When he looked up the ship was out in the river. 



5 ^ 











CHAPTER XLVI 

John had been late in applying for his passage, and in 
consequence, the ship being very full, had had to take 
what berth he could get, which happened to be in the 
second cabin. The occupants of these quarters, how¬ 
ever, were not rated as second-class passengers. The 
Vaterland took none such on her outward voyages, and 
all were on the same footing as to the fare and the 
freedom of the ship. The captain and the orchestra 
appeared at dinner in the second saloon on alternate 
nights, and the only disadvantage in the location was 
that it was very far aft, unless it could be considered a 
drawback that the furnishings were of plain wood and 
plush instead of carving, gilding, and stamped leather. 
In fact, as the voyage proceeded, our friend decided 
that the after-deck was pleasanter than the one amid¬ 
ships, and the cozy second-class smoking-room more 
agreeable than the large and gorgeous one forward. 

Consequently, for a while he rarely went across the 
bridge which spanned the opening between the two 
decks. It may be that he had a certain amount of 
reluctance to encounter Mrs. Edward Ruggles. 

The roof of the second cabin deck-house was, when 
there was not too much wind, a favorite place with him. 










DAVID HARUM 


393 



It was not much frequented, as most of those who spent 
their time on deck apparently preferred a place nearer 
amidships. He was sitting there on the morning of the 
fifth day out, looking idly over the sea, with an occa¬ 
sional glance at the people who were walking on the 
promenade-deck below, or leaning on the rail which 
bounded it. He turned at a slight sound behind him, 
and rose with his hat in his hand. The flush in his 
face, as he took the hand which was offered him, re¬ 
flected the color in the face of the owner, but the gray¬ 
ish brown eyes, which he remembered so well, looked 
into his a little curi¬ 
ously, perhaps, but 
frankly and kindly. 

She was the first to 
speak. 

“How do you do, 

Mr. Lenox?” she said. 

“How do 
you do, Mrs. 

Ruggles?” 
said John, 
throwing up 
his hand 
as, at the 
m o m e n t 
of his re¬ 
ply, a puff 
of wind 

blew the cape of his mackintosh over his head. They 
both laughed a little (this was their greeting after 
nearly six years), and sat down. 

“What a nice place ! ” she said, looking about her. 




394 


DAVID HARUM 


“Yes,” said John; “I sit here a good deal when it 
isn’t too windy.” 

“I have been wondering why I did not get a sight 
of you,” she said. “I saw your name in the passenger 
list. Have you been ill?” 

“I’m in the second cabin,” lie said, smiling. 

She looked at him a little incredulously, and he 
explained. 

“Ah, yes,” she said, “I saw your name, but as you did 
not appear in the dining-saloon, I thought you must 
either be ill or that you did not sail. Did you know 
that I was on board?” she asked. 

It was rather an embarrassing question. 

“I have been intending,” he replied rather lamely, 
“to make mvself known to you—that is, to—well, make 
my presence on board known to you. I got just a 
glimpse of you before we sailed, when you came up to 
speak to a man who had been saying good-by to Mr. 
and Mrs. Ruggles. 1 heard him speak their name, and 
looking over the passenger list I identified you as 
Mrs. Edward Ruggles.” 

“Ah,” she said, looking away for an instant, “I did 
not know that you had seen me, and I wondered 
how you came to address me as Mrs. Ruggles just 
now.” 

“That was how,” said John; and then, after a mo¬ 
ment, “it seems rather odd, doesn’t it, that we should 
be renewing an acquaintance on an ocean steamer as 
we did once before, so many years ago? and that the 
first bit of intelligence that I have had of you in all the 
years since I saw you last should come to me through 
the passenger list?” 

“Did you ever try to get any?” she asked. “I have 


DAVID HARUJVI 


395 

always thought it very strange that we should never 
have heard anything about you.” 

“I went to the house once, some weeks after you had 
gone,” said John, “but the man in charge was out, and 
the maid could tell me nothing.” 

“A note I wrote you at the time of your father’s 
death,” she said, “we found in my small nephew’s over¬ 
coat pocket after we had been some time in California ; 
but I wrote a second one before we left New York, 
telling you of our intended departure, and where we 
were going.” 

“I never received it,” he said. Neither spoke for a 
while, and then : 

“Tell me of your sister and brother-in-law,” lie said. 

“My sister is al present living in Cambridge, where 
Jack is at college,” was the reply; “but poor Julius 
died two years ago.” 

“Ah,” said John, “I am grieved to hear of Mr. Car- 
line’s death. 1 liked him very much.” 

“He liked you very much,” she said, “and often 
spoke of you.” 

There was another period of silence, so long, indeed, 
as to be somewhat embarrassing. None of the thoughts 
which followed each other in John’s mind was of I lie 
sort which he felt like broaching. He realized that 
the situation was becoming awkward, and llial con¬ 
sciousness added to the confusion of his ideas. Ihil if 
his companion shared his embarrassment, neither her 
face nor her manner betrayed it as at last she said, 
turning and looking frankly at him : 

“You seem very little changed. Tell me about your¬ 
self. Tell me something of your life in the last six 
years.” 


DAVID HARUM 


39 6 

During the rest of the voyage they were together for 
a part of every day, sometimes with the company of 
Mrs. William Buggies, but more often without it, as 
her husband claimed much of her attention and rarely 
came on deck; and John, from time to time, gave his 
companion pretty much the whole history of his later 
career. But with regard to her own life, and, as he 
noticed, especially the two years since the death of her 
brother-in-law, she was distinctly reticent. She never 
spoke other marriage or her husband, and after one or 
two faintly tentative allusions, John forbore to touch 
upon those subjects, and was driven to conclude that 
her experience had not been a happy one. Indeed, in 
their intercourse there were times when she appeared 
distrait and even moody ; but on the whole she seemed 
to him to be just as he had known and loved her years 
ago ; and all the feeling that he had had for her then 
broke forth afresh in spite of himself—in spite of the 
fact that, as he told himself, it was more hopeless than 
ever : absolutely so, indeed. 

It was the last night of their voyage together. The 
Kuggleses were to leave the ship the next morning at 
Algiers, where they intended to remain for some time. 

“Would you mind going to the after-deck ? ” he 
asked. “These people walking about fidget me,” lie 
added rather irritably. 

She rose, and they made their way aft. John drew 
a couple of chairs near to the rail. “I don’t care to 
sit down for the present,” she said, and they stood look¬ 
ing out at sea for a while in silence. 

“Do you remember,” said John at last, “a night six 
years ago when we stood together, at the end of the 
voyage, leaning over the rail like this?” 


DAVID HA RUM 


397 


“Yes,” she said. 

“Does this remind you of it!” he asked. 

“ I was thinking of it,” she said. 

“Do you remember the last night I was at your 
house!” he asked, looking straight out over the moon¬ 
lit water. 

“Yes,” she said again. 

“Did you know that night what was in my heart to 
say to you!” 

There was no answer. 

“May I tell you now! ” he asked, giving a side glance 
at her profile, which in the moonlight showed very 
white. 

“Do you think you ought!” she answered in a low 
voice, “or that I ought to listen to you!” 

“I know,” he exclaimed. “You think that as a mar¬ 
ried woman you should not listen, and that knowing 
you to be one I should not speak. If it were to ask 
anything of you I would not. It is for the first and last 
time. To-morrow we part again, and for all time, I 
suppose. I have carried the words that were on my 
lips that night all these years in my heart. I know I 
can have no response—I expect none 5 but it cannot 
harm you if I tell you that I loved you then, and 
have—” 

She put up her hand in protest. 

“You must not go on, Mr. Lenox,” she said, turning 
to him, “and I must leave you.” 

“Are you very angry with me!” he asked humbly. 

She turned her face to the sea again and gave a sad 
little laugh. 

“Not so much as I ought to be,” she answered ; “but 
you yourself have given the reason why you should not 


DAVID HARUM 


398 

say such tilings, and why I should not listen, and why 
I ought to say good-night.” 

“ Ah, yes,” he said bitterly ; “of course you are right, 
and this is to be the end.” 

She turned and looked at him for a moment. “You 
will never again speak to me as you have to-night, will 
you? ” she asked. 

“I should not have said what I did had I not thought 
I should never see you again after to-morrow,” said 
John, “and I am not likely to do that, am I?” 

“If I could be sure,” she said hesitatingly, and as if 
to herself. 

“Well,” said John eagerly. She stood with her eyes 
downcast for a moment, one hand resting 011 the rail, 
and then she looked up. 

“We expect to stay in Algiers about two months,” 
she said, “and then we are going to Naples to visit 
some friends for a few days, about the time you told 
me you thought you might be there. Perhaps it would 
be better if we said good-by to-night; but if after we 
get home you are to spend your days in Homeville and 
1 mine in New York, we shall not be likely to meet, 
and, except on this side of the ocean, we may, as you 
say, never see each other again. So, if you wish, you 
may come to see me in Naples if you happen to be 
there when we are. 1 am sure after to-night that I 
may trust you, may I not? But,” she added, “per¬ 
haps you would not care. I am treating you very 
frankly; but from your standpoint you would expect 
or excuse more frankness than if I were a young 
girl 

b 111 - 

“1 care very much,” he declared, “and it will be a 
happiness to me to see you on any footing, and you 


DAVID HARUM 


399 

may trust me never to break bounds again.” She 
made a motion as if to depart. 

“Don’t go just yet,” he said pleadingly j “there is 
now no reason why you should for a while, is there ? 
Let us sit here in this gorgeous night a little longer, 
and let me smoke a cigar.” 

At the moment he was undergoing a revulsion of 
feeling. His state of mind was like that of an improvi¬ 
dent debtor who, while knowing that the note must be 
paid some time, does not quite realize it for a while 
after an extension. At last the cigar was finished. 
There had been but little said between them. 

“I really must go,” she said, and he walked with her 
across the hanging bridge and down the deck to the 
gangway door. 

“Where shall 1 address you to let you know when 
we shall be in Naples?” she asked as they were about 
to separate. 

“Care of Cook and Son,” he said. “ Yon will find the 
address in Baedeker.” 

He saw her the next morning long enough for a 
touch of the hand and a good-by before the bobbing, 
tubby little boat with its Arab crew took the Ruggleses 
on board. 




5 . 


CHAPTER XLVII 


How John Lenox tried to kill time during the following 
two months, and how time retaliated during the process, 
it is needless to set’forth. It may not, however,be wholly 
irrelevant to note that his cough had gradually disap¬ 
peared, and that his appetite had become good enough 
to carry him through the average table d’hote dinner. 
On the morning after his arrival at Naples he found a 
cable dispatch at the office of Cook and Son, as follows : 
“Sixty cash, forty stock. Stock good. Harum.” 

“God bless the dear old boy !” said John fervently. 
The Pennsylvania property was sold at last; and if 
“stock good” was true, the dispatch informed him that 
he was, if not a rich man for modern days, still, as 
David would have put it, “wuth consid’able.” No 
man, I take it, is very likely to receive such a piece of 
news without satisfaction ; but if our friend’s first sen¬ 
sation was one of gratification, the thought which fol¬ 
lowed had a drop of bitterness in it. “If I could only 
have had it before ! ” he said to himself; and indeed 
many of the disappointments of life, if not the greater 
part, come because events are unpunctual. They have 
a way of arriving sometimes too early, or, worse, too 
late. 

Another circumstance detracted from his satisfaction : 
a note he expected did not appear among the other 
communications waiting him at the bankers, and his 
mind was occupied for the while with various conjec¬ 
tures as to the reason, none of which was satisfactory. 
Perhaps she had changed her mind. Perhaps—a score 


DAVID HARUM 


401 


of things ! Well, there was nothing for it but to be as 
patient as possible and await events. He remembered 
that she had said she was to visit some friends by the 
name of Hartleigli, and she had told him the name of 
their villa, but for the moment lie did not remember it. 
In any case he did not know the Hartleighs, and if she 
had changed her mind—as was possibly indicated by 
the omission to send him word—well— ! He shrugged 
his shoulders, mechanically lighted a cigarette, and 
strolled down and out of the Piazza Martiri and across 
to the Largo della Yittoria. He had a half-formed 
idea of walking back through the Villa Nazionale, 
spending an hour at the Aquarium, and then to his 
hotel for luncheon. It occurred to him at the moment 
that there was a steamer from Genoa on the Monday 
following, that he was tired of wandering about aim- 
lessly and alone, and that there was really no reason 
why he should not take the said steamer and go home. 
Occupied with these reflections, he absently observed, 
just opposite to him across the way, a pair ot large bay 
horses in front of a handsome landau. A coachman in 
liverv was on the box, and a small footman, very much 

•7 ' 

coated and silk-hatted, was standing about ; and, as he 
looked, two ladies came out of the arched entrance to 
the court of the building before which the equipage 
was halted, and the small footman sprang to the car¬ 
riage door. 

One of the ladies was a stranger to him, but the other 
was Mrs. William Ruggles ; and John, seeing that he 
had been recognized, at once crossed over to the car¬ 
riage : and presently, having accepted an invitation to 
breakfast, found himself sitting opposite them on his 
way to the Villa Violante. The conversation during 


402 


DAVID HA HUM 


the drive up to the Vomero need not be detailed. Mrs. 
Hartleigh arrived at Ihe opinion that our friend was 
rather a dull person. Mrs. Buggies, as he had found 
out, was usually rather taciturn. Neither is it necessary 
to say very much of the breakfast, nor of the people 
assembled. 

It appeared that several guests had departed the 
previous day, and the people at table consisted only of 
Mr. and Mrs. Buggies, Mary, Mr. and Mrs. Hartleigh 
aud their two daughters, and John, whose conversation 
was mostly with his host, and was rather desultory. In 
fact, there was during the meal a perceptible air of 
something like disquietude. Mr. Buggies in particular 
said almost nothing, and wore an appearance of what 
seemed like anxiety. Once he turned to his host : 
“When ought I to get an answer to that cable, Hart¬ 
leigh? to-day, do you think?” 

“Yes, I should say so without doubt,” was the reply, 
“if it’s answered promptly, and in fact there’s plenty 
of time. Remember that we are about six hours earlier 
than New York by the clock, and it's only about seven 
in the morning over there.” 

Coffee was served on the balustraded platform of the 
flight of marble steps leading down to the grounds 
below. 

“Mary,” said Mrs. Hartleigh, when cigarettes had 
been offered, “don’t you want to show Mr. Lenox some¬ 
thing of La Yiolante ? ” 

“I shall take you to my favorite place,” she said, as 
they descended the steps together. 

The southern front of the grounds of the Villa 
Yiolante is bounded and upheld by a wall of tufa fifty 


DAVID HARUM 


403 


feet in height and some four hundred feet long. About 
midway of its length a semicircular bench of marble, 
with a rail, is built, out over one of the buttresses. 
From this point is visible the whole bay and harbor of 
Naples, and about one third of the city lies in sight, 
five hundred feet below. To the left one sees Vesuvius 
and the Sant’ Angelo chain, which the eye follows to 
Sorrento. Straight out in front stands Capri, and to 
the right the curve of the bay, ending at Posilipo. 
The two, John and his companion, halted near the 
bench, and leaned upon the parapet of the wall for a 
while in silence. From the streets below rose no rum¬ 
ble of traffic, no sound of hoof or wheel ; but up through 
three thousand feet of distance came from here and 
there the voices of street-venders, the clang of a bell, 
and ever and anon the pathetic supplication of a 
donkey. Absolute quiet prevailed where they stood, 
save for these upcoming sounds. The April sun, deli¬ 
ciously warm, drew a smoky odor from 
the hedge of box with which the parapet 
walk was bordered, in and out of which 
darted small green lizards with the quick¬ 
ness of little fishes. 

John drew a long breath. 

“I don’t believe there is another such 
view in the world,” he said. “I do not 
wonder that this is 
your favorite spot.” 

“Yes,” she 
said,“youshould 
see the grounds 
— the whole 
place is superb 


✓ 


v 'r~ 


w 






* 




■ . 















DAVID HA RUM 


4°4 

—but this is the glory of it all, and I have brought you 
straight here because I wanted to see it with you, and 
this may be the oidy opportunity.” 

“What do you mean!” he asked apprehensively. 

“You heard Mr. Ruggles’s question about the cable 
dispatch!” she said. 

“Yes.” 

“Well,” she said, “our plans have been very much 
upset by some things lie has heard from home. We 
came on from Algiers ten days earlier than we had in¬ 
tended, and if the reply to Mr. Raggies’s cable is unfa¬ 
vorable, we are likely to depart for Genoa to-morrow 
and take the steamer for home on Monday. The reason 
why I did not send a note to your bankers,” she added, 
“was that we came on the same boat that I intended to 
write by ; and Mr. Hartleiglfs man has inquired for 
you every day at Cook's so that Mr. Hartleigh might 
know of your coming and call upon you.” 

John gave a little exclamation of dismay. Her face 
was very still as she gazed out over the sea with half- 
closed eyes. He caught the scent of the violets in the 
bosom of her white dress. 

“Let us sit down,” she said at last. “I have some¬ 
thing I wish to say to you.” 

He made no rejoinder as they seated themselves, and 
during the moment or two of silence in which she 
seemed to be meditating how to begin, he sat bending 
forward, holding his stick with both hands between his 
knees, absently prodding holes in the gravel. 

“I think,” she began, “that if I did not believe the 
chances were for our going to-morrow, I would not say 
it to-day.” John bit his lip and gave the gravel a 
more vigorous punch. “But I have felt that I must 


DAVID HA RUM 


4°5 

say it to you some time before we saw the last of each 
other, whenever that time should be.” 

“Is it anything about what happened on board ship ? ” 
he asked in a low voice. 

“Yes,” she replied, “it concerns all that took place 
on board ship, or nearly all, and I have had many mis¬ 
givings about it. I am afraid that I did wrong, and I 
am afraid, too, that in your secret heart you would 
admit it.” 

“No, never!” he exclaimed. “If there was any 
wrong done, it was wholly of my own doing. I was 
alone to blame. I ought to have remembered that 
you were married, and perhaps—yes, I did remember 
it in a way, but I could not realize it. I had never 
seen or heard of your husband, or heard of your 
marriage. He was a perfectly unreal person to me, 
and you—you seemed only the Mary Blake that I 
had known, and as I had known you. I said what I 
did that night upon an impulse which was as unpre¬ 
meditated as it was sudden. I don’t see how you were 
wrong. You couldn’t have foreseen what took place 
-and-” 

“Have you not been sorry for what took place?” 
she asked, with her eyes on the ground. “Have you 
not thought the less of me since?” 

He turned and looked at her. There was a little 
smile upon her lips and on her downcast eyes. 

“Yo, by Heaven!” he exclaimed desperately, “I 
have not, and I am not sorry. Whether I ought to 
have said what I did or not, it was ti ne, and I wanted 
you to know—” 

He broke off as she turned to him with a smile and 
a blush. The smile was almost a-laugh. 


DAVID HARUM 


406 

“But, John,’ 7 she said, “I am not Mrs. Edward Bug¬ 
gies. I am Mary Blake.” 

The parapet was fifty feet above the terrace. The 
hedge of box was an impervious screen. 

Well, and then, after a little of that sort of thing, 
they both began hurriedly to admire the view again, 



for some one was coming. But it was only one of the 
gardeners, who did not understand English ; and con¬ 
fidence being once more restored, they fell to discuss¬ 
ing—everything. 

“Do you think you could live in Homeville, dear?” 
asked John after a while. 

“I suppose I shall have to, shall I not?” said Mary. 
“And are you, too, really happy, John?” 






DAVID HA HUM 


407 

John instantly proved to her that lie was. “But it 
almost makes me unhappy/’ he added, “to think how 
nearly we have missed each other. If I had only 
known in the beginning that you were not Mrs. Edward 
Haggles! ” 

Mary laughed joyously. The mistake which a mo¬ 
ment before had seemed almost tragic now appeared 
delightfully funny. 

“The explanation is painfully simple/’ she answered. 
“Mrs. Edward Ruggles—the real one—did expect to 
come on the Vaterland, whereas I did not. But the 
day before the steamer sailed she was summoned to 
Andover by the serious illness of her only son, who is 
at school there. I took her ticket, got ready overnight 
—I like to start on these unpremeditated journeys— 
and here I am.” John put his arm about her to make 
sure of this, and kept it there—lest he should forget. 
“When we met on the steamer and I saw Ihe error you 
had made I was tempted—and yielded—to let you go 
on uncorrected. But,” she added, looking lovingly up 
into John’s eyes, “I’m glad you found out you] 1 mis¬ 
take at last.” 


CHAPTER XLYIII 


A fortnight later Mr. Hariini sat at his desk in the 
office of Hamm & Co. There were a number of letters 
for him, but the one he opened first bore a foreign 
stamp, and was postmarked “Napoli.” That he was 
deeply interested in the contents of this epistle was 
manifest from the beginning, not only from the expres¬ 
sion of his face, but from the frequent “wa’al, wa’als ” 
which were elicited as he went on ; but interest grew 
into excitement as he neared the close, and culminated 
as he read the last few lines. 

“Scat my CATS!” he cried, and, grabbing his hat 

and the letter, he bolted out of the back door in the 

« ' 

direction of the house, leaving the rest of his corre¬ 
spondence to be digested—any time. 





EPILOGUE 


1 might, in conclusion, tell how John’s further life in 
Homeville was of comparatively short duration ; how 
David died of injuries received in a runaway accident; 
how John found himself the sole executor of his late 
partner’s estate, and, save for a life provision for Mrs. 
Bixbee, the only legatee, and rich enough (if indeed 
with his own and his wife’s money he had not been so 
before) to live wherever he pleased. But as heretofore 
I have confined myself strictly to facts, I am, to be con¬ 
sistent, constrained to abide by them now. Indeed, I 
am too conscientious to do otherwise, notwithstanding 
the temptation to make what might be a more artistic 
ending to my story. David is not only living, but ap¬ 
pears almost no older than when we first knew him, 
and is still just as likely to “git goin’” on occasion. 
Even “old Jinny” is still with us, though her master 
does most of his “joggin’ round” behind a younger 
horse. Whatever Mr. Harum’s testamentary inten¬ 
tions may be, or even whether he lias made a will or 
not, nobody knows but himself and his attorney. Aunt 
Polly—well, there is a little more of her than when we 
first made her acquaintance, say twenty pounds. 

John and his wife live in a house which they built 
on the shore of the lake. It is a settled thing that 
David and his sister dine with them every Sunday. 
Mrs. Bixbee at first looked a little askance at the wine 
on the table, but she does not object to it now. Being 
a “son o’ temp’renee,” she has never been induced to 
taste any champagne, but on one occasion she was per- 




2 ' 


410 


DAVII) HAKUM 


/ 




/a 


way that does .’ 7 

Hhe and Mrs. Lenox look to eaeli other from the first, 
and the latter has quite supplanted (and more) Miss 
Ofaricy (Mrs. Elton) with David. In fact, lie said to 
our friend one day during the first year of the mar¬ 
riage, “Say, John. I ain’t sure but what we'll have to 
hitch that wife o’ yourn on the off side.” 

I had nearly forgotten one person whose conversation 
has yet to be recorded in print, but which is considered 
very interesting by at least four people. His name is 
David Lenox. 


I think Unit’s all. 


CD 


THE END 





















